


The Sacrificial Skeleton And The Labyrinth Of Gods

by this_is_my_alt



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: (sort of), And Regular Violence I Guess, Blue has a bit of a breeding kink, But can summon whatever genitalia, Ecto-Tentacles (Undertale), Ecto-tongues, Eventual Smut, Evil Skellies, F/F, F/M, Fantasy Violence, Fisting, Language Barrier, Masturbation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Multi, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Not the OG Universe, Prepare for trouble, Reader Is A Skeleton, Reverse Harem, Shy AND Evil Skellies, Shy Skellies, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Stretch likes shibari, Ye Olde Times, make it double, monster racism, reader is female, sue me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:47:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 66,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25809079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/this_is_my_alt/pseuds/this_is_my_alt
Summary: As a necromancer, you’re used to suspicious stares and whispers of heresy from the townsfolk. It only gets worse after you’re killed and walk Ebott Empire as an undead skeleton.When you hear rumors of a strange settlement that worships the undead, it’s too tempting to resist. The locals treat you better than you’ve ever been treated. That is, right up to the moment where you’re dressed up and tied to an altar as a sacrificial bride for their skeleton gods.Despite their advanced technology and magical prowess, you’re doubtful of their divinity. What kind of gods blush whenever they see a bit of bone?
Relationships: Papyrus (Undertale)/Reader, Sans (Undertale)/Reader
Comments: 358
Kudos: 874





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Soldier and the Carnal Skeletons](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18068075) by [Writers_War_Z0ne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writers_War_Z0ne/pseuds/Writers_War_Z0ne). 



The natural order is sacred. Life and death especially so. To give life is the work of the divine. To give death is the hallowed responsibility of Ebott Empire’s warriors. To give undeath, an unnatural state of existence, is the work of demons.

Demons no longer walk freely, thanks to your ancestors of a few hundred years ago, but they sow wickedness from below ground with their corrupting magic. It’s because of their influence that an abomination like you exists. At least, that’s what the Royal Priestess teaches. You’re cursed with unnatural magic. Not the good kind of unnatural either, not the healing magic of seraphim—the unholy abilities of a necromancer.

The Imperial Academy insisted on reminding you of your lower status with every step of your progression. Bleak grey robes. A demonic delta rune written by your name on all documentation. A necklace, adorned with the sigil of undeath, to be worn always. It marks you as an outcast to everyone you encounter. The Academy’s condemning messages were undermined by the resources they diverted into training you. It seems no matter how cursed or evil your nature is, you are still of use to the empire. It’s that usefulness that’s protected you from the worst of the discrimination from other mages.

You were brought up with the rest of them as peers. The mages that work within the natural order, not against it. They can manipulate the elements, becoming valuable artificers or specialized soldiers in Her Holiness’s army. They made up some of your most treasured companions.

That was before.

Before, when you travelled with your company, going city to city resuscitating dead crops and using your mage team’s abilities to help the citizenry in any way.

Before one member of the citizenry decided he didn’t want your cursed, unholy help.

Before you’d been killed.

Your gloved phalanges fiddle with the necklace that resurrected you. You’d imbued it with your necromantic magic over the years. Now it is empty, all its magic occupied in animating you. It’d been experimental. A side project you’d tinkered on when your mana stores were in surplus. When you’d ‘woken up’ from your death a few months ago, you’d been thrilled to find that it worked. You’d been less thrilled to find out how _long_ it took to work.

You’d unearthed yourself from an unmarked grave to find your flesh had long since wasted away. Not all bad. Undead flesh has its inconveniences. You’d preferred resurrecting humans that had reached this stage of decomposition as skeletons are much less messy than newly deceased corpses. A wash in the river was all it took to slough the stink of death off you.

Your project had seemed like a success until you’d returned to the Academy to find you’d been dead long enough for everyone you know and love to perish of natural causes. You were alone. Completely alone. The only living names you recognized were those of institutions. The structure of society was, for the most part, unchanged.

The Academy was your anchor. The familiar halls and sight of excitable initiates gathering in the mess hall was enough to keep you from slipping entirely into hopelessness, for a while. It wasn’t meant to last. Staying at the Academy as a nonstudent meant earning your keep. The instructors deemed the best way for you to do this was as a subject of study for the other necromancers. A practical and reasonable idea. You’d successfully developed a method of passive resurrection, after all. They had much to learn from you! But that wasn’t what they wanted. They didn’t see you as a mentor. Hell, they didn’t even see you as human. You could tell from the jaded looks in the mages’ eyes when you spoke that it was only a matter of time before one got bold enough to try casting “Command Undead” on you.

You didn’t linger long enough for that to happen. Despite not having much to live for, you weren’t going to roll over and let some cavalier apprentice turn you into a puppet. You’d left, but you’d had nowhere to go.

You wandered. Your vagrancy a sad, solitary mockery of before, when you’d traveled the same roads with your friends. Cloaked and covering your bones to avoid the damning stares of your fellow humans, you simply watched as the hardships of a frosty spring devastate the local agriculture. You hated your cursed, undead existence, but you still feared losing it. Using your magic to help these people would mean drawing mana from your limited store. There was only so much put away in that necklace. It’s impossible to know how long it’d preserve your undeath but using it unnecessarily would certainly hasten your final demise.

That’s how you’d existed, for a time. A passive observer. Waiting for nothing, saving your magic for nothing. Until one day, you’d had enough. You tracked down your friends’ graves. Not caring if it doomed you, you’d revived them, just long enough to see them. To hear their blessed laughter again. They told you about their lives. Who their soulmate was, where they settled down. They spoke of how they’d missed you. They said their goodbyes, and for the first time since your death, you _wanted_ something besides returning to rest.

You were hungry. It didn’t make sense. You’re undead. A self-contained, limited system. Food did nothing for you. Yet, you found yourself craving it. You’d indulged yourself, bartering for roasted quail and fruit. Sitting under a tree at dusk, you’d sat with your spoils, unsure if you could truly make use of them. The scents flow senselessly through your skull, but it did look delicious.

An odd buzzing had overtaken the center of your head. Warmth. Then…sensation. You could taste the air. You opened your jaw and a spectral, translucent tongue rolled out. You ate. You savored. And the food replenished you, dissolving into energy.

It was unprecedented. Impossible, as you’d been taught. But that was only the beginning. Your magic seemed to…change you. At first it was subtle, benign changes. Old human senses returning. Your tongue was the first. Your eye sockets filled with a light that functioned better than your living eyes had. Your bones eventually gained sensitivity to temperature and touch. You started sleeping and dreaming again.

The changes weren’t only practical, either. Your form fluctuated. Your bones filled out in places, lengthening in others. Your human shape returned in the form of a ghostly torso over your ribcage, spine, and pelvis. Ecto-hair sprouted from your skull, floating down to your collarbones. Your soulmate tattoo appeared on your bones, below where it was marked on your skin in life. Supposedly, it’s the name of your one true love. The person you’re destined to be with. However, your mark has always been indecipherable to you. It’s in an unknown language. Even the characters and lettering are foreign, unlike anything you’d seen. It’s been a constant mystery to you, even more so now, that it would reappear after your soulmate is likely long since dead.

It amazed and terrified you. It was amazing because you felt alive again, more alive than you ever had! It was terrifying because of the crawling sense that you were moving further away from your own humanity. Perhaps Her Holiness was right to condemn necromancy. It was turning you into a demon.

This fear affected the changes. Your self-directed paranoia warping your image into something increasingly demonic. Black horns jut from the frontal bone of your skull. If they grow any longer, they’ll be impossible to cover with your hooded cowl.

You take a swig of ale and let your tankard _thunk_ heavily against the wood table. The darkest corner of the tavern is where you’ve camped out tonight, recovering your mana from a mass resurrection of a merchant’s silkworms. They wouldn’t be able to reproduce or live as long as they would’ve, but they’ll continue to weave their valuable threads for long enough to stave off financial ruin.

A man at the bar meets your eyes. A bold one. Most people are too afraid to look at you directly. By his rugged clothing and excess of pouches and packs, you mark him as a fellow traveler. He takes your appraisal of him as some sort of acceptance and he strides over to take a seat across from you.

“Enlighten me, freak.” The sword in his scabbard clatters as he settles on the bench. “How do you drink that ale of yours without it spilling through ya and staining the floorboards?”

You hesitate to answer, not wanting to indulge the adventurer’s morbid curiosity and become the object of his entertainment tonight. “It’s magic.”

“Not any kind of magic I’ve seen,” he counters gruffly, “And I’ve seen a lot.”

You’re silent. You hope he’ll get bored with you and leave you alone, but he seems content to simply hear his own voice.

“I’ve seen a lot,” he repeats. “Mages gone mad with power. Entire cities corrupted by demonic energy. A contraption that harvests lightning. You wouldn’t believe half the things I’ve seen.” The boasting doesn’t faze you. You begin tapping your distals against your tankard, a not so subtle hint of boredom. Undeterred and determined to pique your interest, he leans forward and continues, “Even seen a place that worships freaks like you.”

That manages to spark your curiosity. You’ve never heard of anyone worshipping anything but the healing light of divinity. Is anything else even allowed? The traveler notices your attention and basks in it.

“Yup, quite the anomaly. Incredible that a nature-fearing man such as myself, made it out of that undeath cult unscathed. Tried to educate them about the ways of Her Holiness’ but they wouldn’t hear it. Told ‘em it’s a quick trip to the gallows if they take advantage of the Empire’s privileges without honoring its ways. Still didn’t listen. Kept blabbering on about their skeleton gods and their ‘gifts’.”

“Ah, well, I won’t bore you with the details,” he makes a show of getting up to return to the bar. When you grab his arm to stop him, he smirks gallingly.

“Wait!” you swallow your pride and distaste for the man in favor of gleaning more information. “Please tell me more of this strange place.”

“Suppose I could. But firstly, I’d like to make a toast,” he raises his jug and gestures for you to do the same.

Ah. Of course. He was curious about how you were able to drink, and now he wanted to see it up close. It’s irritating, but this kind of attention is no worse than the open disdain you get from most villagers. He’ll get his freakshow. You only want to know what kind of place would respect and worship ‘freaks like you’. 

“What are we toasting?” you inquire cautiously, lifting your tankard.

“To seeing new things!” he cheers, colliding his cup with your own and sending droplets of froth raining onto the oak tabletop.

“To seeing new things,” you parrot. You chug your drink and wipe your teeth with the back of your glove. He’s watching closely and when you put down your empty tankard, he seems unsatisfied.

“It’s harder to see new things when you’ve got all those layers on you. Why don’t you take another swig after you’ve peeled back a few, then we’ll talk.”

He’s openly calling you a thing now? Not surprising. You sigh and lift the cowl from your collarbones without removing your hood. Your neck and collarbones are exposed to his gawking. “If you want me to drink, you’ll have to buy me another,” you hand him the empty stein. “I’ve run dry.”

He takes the cup with a more forceful than necessary swipe and buggers off to the bar, cursing under his breath about having to spend his precious gold on a corpse. When he returns, you accept the refill and take a slow swallow of it, letting him see how it disappears into the void of your skull instead of draining down your spine and onto the floor. “Satisfied?” you query, snark half quelled.

“Aye. That’s some magic you’ve got there,” a menacing note breaks through his previous veil of civility, “Downright unnatural.”

“All necromancy is unnatural. It is forgiven in service of the Empire,” you defend with lines from your training tomes.

“You drinking this tavern’s piss-poor excuse for ale is service to Empire? I shouldn’t think so.” he derides, rising half out of his seat, hand on his dagger sheath in silent threat. “Your types should steer clear of civilization. Run off with the other heretics and outsiders, to where us goodly folk don’t have to see you.”

After you jumped through his hoops, he wouldn’t tell you what you wanted? Anger makes you reckless in your response, “I’d love to run off with the freaks and cultists, but your muck-spouting mouth won’t tell me where they are!”

The traveler tenses for a moment, before bursting into chortles. “The cadaver’s got a point. That demon-cursed place is a few day’s ride North of the mountain. If you get lost, ask the locals where the haunted forest is and they’ll point you to it. Now go. And take your fellow freaks with you.”

He snatches the drink he’d given you and spits at your feet. Revolting man. You gather your things and rush from the tavern into the cold night. As you walk to your horse, you think about what he’d said. A haunted forest, huh? If there’s a place you’d expect undeath cultists to reside, that’d be it. Even as a possible creature of nightmares yourself, you find yourself uneager to venture to such a foreboding destination.

Yet, the promise of other sentient skeletons, would-be gods or not, is tempting. You might not be alone. It’s a small chance, but there could be others like you. Others that wouldn’t glare, gawk at how you eat and drink, or throw stones at you. The very thought is enough to make your soul shine with excitement.

You arrive at your horse’s resting spot, a pile of equine bones underneath a blossoming wild fruit tree. You don’t keep her reanimated while you’re away. It wastes magic and is unnecessarily cruel to force her to exist only to wait around for you.

Siphoning a portion of your mana into her, you watch as the purple glow levitates her bones, each into its proper place until you’ve got a functional horse skeleton. You don’t allot enough energy for her mind to sustain any social capabilities, or anything much more than the urge to move and move _fast_ , yet you’ve somehow managed to get attached. Her name is Dusty. Called such for her tendency to kick up all the dust of the road to float past her spine and into your every joint and socket. You cover her back with a woolen blanket as a bone buffer and climb on. “Ride, Dusty. Let’s find some friends.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the horse is named after dusttale!sans' usual nickname. Because I amuse myself and have no shame. 
> 
> I can't decide whether to make the reader-skeleton gender neutral. There are two wolves inside me. One says a gender neutral reader will be relatable to more people and a good choice. The other says, but...bone tiddies. We'll see which wolf wins.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for everyone’s input on the bone tiddy conundrum. I’ve decided on a female reader with no ecto or bony breasts but can summon whatever genitalia she wants (and maybe tentacles ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)). I've changed the category to Multi as any smut scenes I write will likely be either involving F/M or F/F genitalia.  
> Glad people are liking the concept and thank you so much for reading!!

It takes less than a day to travel past Mt. Ebott. Dusty doesn’t need breaks to eat or rest and you’ve learned to sleep on horseback, so you make excellent time. It’s the next morning that your journey hits its first hitch. You’d inquired after the haunted forest with a nearby innkeeper. She blanches at its mention, paling past the point she’d been at when she’d spotted you walking towards her. Not a good sign. Everything a few hours North of here has been hit by calamity, she’d said. Stay away if you want to stay un-dead.

It’s not often that a citizen worries for your safety. You are disposable, like all undead. That place must be truly hopeless if they don’t want to waste a mere tool of the Empire in its treachery. You don’t heed the warning. You persevere, not having anything to lose.

As she’d said, a few hours down the road you begin sensing massive amounts of death. Corpses everywhere. Most human, some livestock. It’s not long before you see the source. A village, buildings blackened and burnt, its inhabitants unburied and rotting in the sun. You dismount to investigate. When you attempt to resurrect a villager to interrogate, you can’t. They’re…empty. Hollow. Their soul is _gone_.

It wasn’t just that villager. All of them, each one of their souls-shells missing. It points to one thing: demons. Soul-suckers, as they’re called in impolite company. They consume human souls to strengthen their own. But…they’re supposed to be gone, sealed away forever. Yet, here you are. Your grip your horns in horror. If those skeletons were the ones who did this…they must be demonic. If they’re demons, who’s to say you aren’t as well?

You must find out. Even if you don’t like the answer.

You consider digging graves for the ill-fated townsfolks, but it’s futile. There are no usable souls here. It’s the remnants of a soul that makes the difference between a corpse and an inanimate object. One your magic can touch. The other is forever lifeless. It’d take days for you and Dusty to dig the graves on your own.

And so, you press onwards. You pass two more destroyed townships. Each one older than the last, the corpses decomposed, and the structures reduced to rubble and retaken by plants. The demons must be headed South. They can’t be allowed to get any closer to the capital. Why hadn’t the Royal Priestess sent Her forces here? Whatever was causing this destruction must be contained. To keep your mind off the troubling sights, you speculate about your nature. The Academy didn’t think there was anything special about you. However, that was before you’d began creating your own magic again. If you returned now, you’re sure they’d react differently.

There’s a theory. A hopeful, wistful theory that explains your changes without crediting demonic influence. It concerns the character of your soul. Of all the creatures you’d resurrected in life, you’d never brought back a fellow necromancer. Perhaps in doing so, you provide the undeath magic too hospitable an environment to settle. It sprouted in the shell of your persevering soul and sprung into a semi-dynamic state of survival. It’s a rough hypothesis. Magical theory was never your specialty. 

The next landmark in your journey is thankfully less grim than its predecessors, though just as mysterious. It takes the form of an apple-sized piece of glass and metal in the trees. You wouldn’t have noticed it if it didn’t have a tiny, dull red light on one side. You don’t understand the source of the light. It can’t be magic, there is no red magic. You get closer and see its glass is shaped like a lens. For what, though? And why would a construction of such complicated craftsmanship be up in a tree?

You consider climbing it to retrieve the trinket but decide against it. A potential demon outbreak is more important. And the odd apparatus is not unique. You spot several more of them decorating the branches as you ride down the road. Scarcely fifteen minutes passed since you saw the first when the distance rumbling of myriad hoof beats alarm you. Dusty slows to a trot. You barely have time to scan the area for souls before you’re surrounded by armored men on horseback.

The scan comes up blank on any dead or undead nearby. There’ll be no summoning up a fallen soldier to defend you. It’s just you and Dusty against a unit of cavalry under an unknown banner.

Their horses are living, full of flesh and blood, and they’re skittish of the member of their species that isn’t. They give Dusty a wide berth. The distance isn’t enough to make the sharpness of the men’s spears any less threatening as they’re pointed in a ring of spikes around you.

“Show yourself, stranger!” their leader barks the command through slots in his plumed helmet. “State your name and your business!”

Your unconventional steed is enough to tip them off to your necromancy, but there’s no telling how they’ll react to the unnatural light in your sockets. Your devilish horns. Your phalanges tremble as they clutch your cowl. The battalion’s metal plates clink in their impatient rustling. There’s no helping it. You’re entirely at their mercy. If they are anything but the undeath cultists you’ve been seeking, it’s likely this is where your journey ends. Resigning yourself to fate, you pull off your hood and meet the captain’s stare.

“I am Y/N. I intend no harm. My business is seeking a land where I am welcome.”

At the sound of your name the menacing points of the spears are dropped and pulled back. There’s a hesitation as several soldiers exchange glances and hushed communication. The captain dismounts with a heavy thud of his metal boots meeting the earth. He removes his helmet, holding it to his hip as he approaches you on foot. 

“Are you truly the one called Y/N?” he asks, voice kindlier without needing a shout to cut through distance and armor. He is an older human. His eyebrows are greying, bushy and lifted in astonishment.

You nod, teeth parting in shock as he takes a knee at Dusty’s hooves. “You have my sincere apologies for startling you. You will be welcome in our city. Will you allow us to escort you there?”

He’s apologizing? But he’s a stranger. He owes you nothing. “Yes,” you grant, sounding surer than you feel.

“Good,” the man rises from the dirt with visible relief. “It would not do for an honored guest of our town to travel unaccompanied in these worrying times. I trust you saw the wreckage of those unfortunate villages on your journey?”

“I did. What caused such destruction? Demons?”

“Worse than demons,” he frowns, forming harsh, aged lines around his mouth. “Angry gods. The gods have many faces and not all of them friendly. Come, you have nothing to fear, honored traveler. I shall tell you why, as we return home.”

Your concern must have shown on your skull as you tightly clutch the leather reigns. His words are worrying. Worse than demons…truly, is such a thing possible? The captain mounts his steed and guides her besides Dusty to travel at a brisk walk. “You have nothing to fear now that you have found us,” he continues, reassuring, “We are a blessed people. The angry gods wish to take, but we are protected. Surely you saw our gods’ eyes watching over your path?”

“Gods’ eyes?”

“They are made of naught but glass and metal, but they give us sight. One of our gods’ many gifts. We use them to observe our borders, to watch for enemies, or,” he gestures to you, “anticipate guests. Cameras, they are called.”

“Kamerahs...” you repeat the unknown word, testing it on your summoned tongue. The captain’s dedication to these heretical ideas is evident in his explanations. He seems good-intentioned but is obviously misled. Those who don’t respect nature’s laws cannot hope to receive the blessed light. Who knows what sort of morals a human outside of the divine light might have?

You rub the top of Dusty’s skull. Another dismaying realization dawns on you as you watch the captain’s horse whinny and fight against the reigns as she resists traveling alongside her fallen, hollowed out sister. The rude traveler had said the undeath cultists worship skeletons. He never specified _human_ skeletons. These people could be worshiping undead dogs for all you know. How are you only thinking of this now?

There’s a sure way of finding out if your assumption was overhasty. Once the captain’s horse calms down you question him, “Excuse me. Could you tell me more of your gods? What are they like?”

“Curious, are you?” He raises a bushy brow and you struggle to place his expression. It’s one that is usually accompanied by an elbow nudging you in one direction or the other. Ah. A knowing look. He’s amused by your line of inquiry. “They look much like yourself, except for the horns. They speak their own language. Our patron gods are benevolent and wise. You’re in luck, we’ll be celebrating the anniversary of their arrival at sunset on the sixth day. You may get a chance to meet them. They mostly keep to themselves. You’ll need to speak with our temple scholar to learn more.”

They look like you. They can speak. And they’re _meetable_. Incredibly promising! “Can you take me to this scholar?”

“Straightaway,” he agrees, “Town shouldn’t be far now.”

Sure enough, the trees thin and make room for stone structures. A barracks at their borders, you’d guess. Most of the militia is dismissed and stable their horses to return to their daily duties. It’s simpler to relax when there’s a handful of men accompanying you, rather than a troupe. 

There’s a short stretch of road before civilian buildings crop up, rows of houses and a marketplace. The street is crowded with life. Most of the pedestrians carry on, busied by whatever business occupies them, but a few drop their jaws and stop to stare at your presence. The stares are less accusing than you’re used to. They’re not callous or gawking like that traveler, either. They look on you with an expression of rapt wonder. It makes you uncomfortable. You avert your attention to our surroundings. They are subject to suspicion. If an evil ideology has taken root here, its rotten fruits should be apparent. Your scrutiny is sharp, searching for any sign of decrepitude or corruption. You find none. If anything, this place looks far healthier and wealthier than even the capital. The streets are clean and free of any beggars.

Stranger yet, there are strings of…something…. connecting the houses. Wires. You don’t understand their purpose. Are they for hanging clothes to dry? Then why are they so high up? The captain brings his horse to a halt when you reach a great, regal building in the center of town. Its granite steps are white and pristine. You can’t help but marvel at its magnitude.

You dismount and allow Dusty to disentangle. Her bones collapse with a clatter onto the cobblestone road. “Could I… get a bag, for her?” You’d rather not leave yourself without a mount nearby in case this cult shows its true colors and things go sideways. Equine bones are heavy, but it would be worth it lugging Dusty around to keep her close. You fully expect the captain to barter with you for a backpack. He’s been amiable, so far. You only hope that he has need of your services. 

“Of course. Earnan!” he turns to yell at one of his men, tossing him a purse jingling with coin. “Fetch a satchel for the lady.”

“Yessir,” the youthful Earnan replies, swiftly setting off in a canter in the direction of the market. The captain joins you on the stone steps. He holds his hands on his hips, looking with pride on the building before him.

“While we wait, I can tell you about our city’s gem. The temple. Our gods didn’t ask for it. They gave us designs for libraries, laboratories, greenhouses—but none for a place of worship. We chose to build one regardless. Their help left us with much gratitude in our hearts and we needed a place to express our devotion. It was my late grandmother who devised its design. What do you think?” he asks, gesturing grandly to its marble pillars, taller than trees and much thicker around.

You answer with awe, “It is unlike anything I’ve seen.” The Academy could be considered a religious building, like all public buildings its purpose is to reinforce and glorify nature, but it is utilitarian and bare compared to this.

“It took our guild of masons a decade of labor.” Your skull must have scrunched up as the man’s voice becomes placating. “Do not let this distress you. It was our gods-gifted prosperity that allowed us to spare so many able arms for such a length of time. We have plenty, and we are happy to share. Allow us to indulge you. Ah, here comes the boy now, with your bag.”

Earnan swipes his legs over his horses back and jumps down, bowing in front of you a bit unsteadily. The satchel is extended before him in offering. “Will this be adequate, my lady?”

You take it, tentatively turning it over with your hands. Its make is sturdy. The leatherwork is commendable and embossed with simple yet fetching patterns. All in all, it looks expensive. “More than adequate. Are you certain you are willing to part with this fine good, without anything in return?” Your eyelights waver between the two men warily. 

“I am certain. It is yours, think nothing of it,” the captain assures. You resolve to not let his generosity get your guard down while you bend to the ground. Handful by handful, you load Dusty’s bones into the bag. They rattle euphoniously as you hoist it onto your back over your other supplies. You give them a few fond pats over the leather lid-flap.

The captain reaches to cup Earnan’s shoulder with a broad, gauntleted hand, “That will be all, my boy. I will return once Y/N is settled with the scholar.” After a dawdling gander of your form, Earnan accepts his dismissal and leaves with his other guardsmen. “Now then. Let us proceed. I will not deny you the pleasure of seeing this beautiful building’s interior any longer.”

You follow him to the broad arched entrance, reluctantly charmed by his admiration for his ancestor’s architectural accomplishments. The captain swings open the oak door. The air wooshes into your skull and you can taste the incense heavy in it. The room is large and open. Its ceiling is a high dome with a hole in its center to let light pour onto its central altar. Around the skylight are paintings. You arch your spine to admire them. The artistry is remarkable, the colors vibrant and sharp. The stone walls are covered in large, woven tapestries. The art is so beautifully overwhelming that it takes you a minute to notice you are not alone in this room. Worshipers dot the pristine marble structure, admiring the artwork and kneeling in discrete prayer.

There is a robed woman engaged in lighting the candles that cover the central altar. The captain snags her arm, inquiring, “Where’s Beckett?”

Her voice is prim, despite her attire being as humble as your own tatty garments. Granted, her frock is newer, and fresher kept. The road was long and you’re due for a wash. Still, you’d expected a finer, more ostentatious regalia for those that serve in such a grand building as this one. “Beck’s busy.”

“It’s important,” he argues, tone reminding you of the threatening demand that made up his first words to you. The strong insistence causes the woman to turn from her task. She is middle aged and wears her age well. She catches your eye and immediately her austere expression melts into amazement.

“I suppose preparations for the anniversary festival can wait,” she concludes. “Shall I fetch him for you?”

“If you would,” he affirms appreciatively. You regard the tapestry nearest you as you find yourself once again waiting on someone the captain has commandeered to boss around on your behalf. It depicts dueling skeletons. Both male, though with the armor covering them you can’t be sure.

The leftmost skeleton’s skull shape confounds you. You try to imagine his roundish skull covered in skin and it doesn’t work. It’s an exaggeration of a human skull. With the rest of the scene depicted in realism you find it odd to make an exception for one combatant. His sockets are huge! No human could have eyes sufficiently large to fill such wide chasms. Then again, your bone structure changed when your magic came back. Maybe the change could be dramatic enough to yield such results. It’s not unattractive. The bright blue light that swims in those sockets, though shrunken in the savagery of battle, is almost endearing. Yes, you think that maybe if this skeleton weren’t portrayed wielding a weapon in the midst of a shower of sharp bones, he would be unquestionably cute.

The other figure, on the right side of the tapestry, you cannot say the same for. His skull is more realistically human in structure, and thus more macabre. The blackened steel of his suit of armor contrasts sharply with his snowy bones. He is snarling with viciously pointed teeth and something in the back of your mind whispers that this must be one of the ‘angry gods’ the captain had mentioned.

The captain allows you to ponder over the depiction before piping up, “Ah, the glory of battle.” He scratches his stubbly chin and squints at the tapestry. “I can’t seem to recall which battle, exactly. Mercy and Calamity have fought many times. To know precisely which of their skirmishes this immortalizes, we’d need the expertise of our religious scholar, Beckett. Mind like a steel trap, that one, and those spindly legs of his will carry him to us in no time.”

It is unnecessary to ask which woven figure is which. The artist has made them foils, contrasting each other with such starkness that the black knight cannot be mistaken for anything but calamitous to his enemies, and the blue-eyed hero is a merciful presence even in the midst of violence. You wonder how hyperbolic this juxtaposition is.

“Is this an accurate depiction of events, or an artist’s interpretation?” you ask instead, sockets narrowing in deeper concentration on the image.

“Without the context, it’s difficult to say. I’m sure they’ve had struggles that humanity has not seen. This could be a guess at one. But there are many that we have been witness to. Myriads of Mercy’s battles have been fought in defense of our town. We were there to watch the gods war over the fate of our city, some of us caught in the crossfire.” The captain’s stare is on the wall, but it seems as if he’s looking far, far away. “Most have seen Mercy’s valiancy from the windows of their homes when our streets become a battlefield. That is one of the reasons he is the more venerated of our patron gods. Fewer have been privy to our other protector’s contributions. Justice works in his twin’s shadow. He protects us from within, assuring that no corrupt soul can climb our ranks and cause harm under our banners. An invaluable gift, truly irreplaceable. ”

A raven-haired, robed man clears his throat behind your group. He appears slightly winded from his hasty approach. Though he looks younger than even Earnan, he necessitates respect as he challenges the captain with a good-humored reproach, “Now, Gregor, you mustn’t confuse the lady with your personal preferences. All of the gods are worthy of our respect. We cannot judge them, their aims are beyond our understanding.”

The captain—Gregor—slams his armored hand on the other man’s back in greeting. “Beckett, my good man. You of all people can’t claim to not pick favorites. It was Mercy who saved you, wasn’t it?”

Beckett observes you in calm consideration while he responds, “It is true that I wouldn’t have survived boyhood without Mercy. This doesn’t discredit the rest of the pantheon. All of them saved me. Saved _us_. From ignorance, from eternal unenlightenment.”

“I have no desire to discuss theology with you,” Gregor impatiently shakes his head at the scholar. “Though, Y/N does. Can I trust her in your care?”

Beckett nods solemn affirmation. “I will do everything in my power to keep her from harm.”

“Good. Then with your leave, my lady?” Gregor waits on you with his head dipped in a bow.

You nearly drop your jaw in incredulity. He is asking for you to dismiss him? You are no noblewoman, and the bushy eyebrowed militia man is certainly not your lady in waiting. Still, with how kind he’s been thus far, you politely play along. “You may go. Thank you for your assistance.”

In spite of his threatening beginnings, you feel a pinch of uneasiness as Gregor leaves you behind. You’re not sure about this robed fanatic. Is Beckett trustworthy? He amiably accepts your suspicious stare, then suggests, “You have questions?”

“Many,” you answer, tone revealing your now open perplexity. 

“I will do my best to answer them. Where shall we begin?”

You parse through the branches of inquiries you could take, considering all the baffling behaviors and beliefs you’d encountered since arriving. With so many unknowns, you decide to start simple. “The…religion, that you practice here,” you only just avoiding calling it a cult, risking an insult to the one who currently holds your fate. “I have seen nothing of its like. What is it called?”

“It has no name. To us, it is only The Truth. But before I say anymore, I must clarify something. There is religious history and there is religious theory. I am the current authority on both. However, it is important to understand that the two are separate. Our history is what we have recorded and passed down since the gods’ arrival. Our theories are speculation on what that history means, and our guesses as to the gods’ very nature.”

“Start from the beginning of your history, then. The gods’…arrival.”

“It was decades ago. Chaos, at first. Our ancestors wrote of eerie and inexplicable events. Mechanical vessels materialized out of thin air and out of them stepped skeletons with strange abilities. We were not the first town to be visited, no, though that town no longer exists. It was struck down. That is a story for another occasion. Over time, more and more crafts arrived with their divine passengers and we became panicked. We feared the unknown. We rejected them, attempting to push them out with force. This was a mistake. The efforts were fruitless and cost many lives.”

“What happened? How did you go from scorning them to revering them as gods?”

Beckett nudges his head, gesturing to a tapestry across the room. “Follow me.” He leads you to an intricately woven depiction of Mercy. This time he is not in battle, nor wearing armor. He is donning a blue scarf and plain top with pauldrons. His head is haloed. He kneels over a child, collapsed on the ground. One of his skeletal hands is holding the blade of a sword from falling over his neck, the other is over the unconscious boy’s chest, glowing green.

“This is how—The first miracle. Our first glimpse of their divinity. A child was injured and on the brink of death. When one of the skeletons approached the sickly boy, we were defensive. We attacked him. Our blows did not stop him. He healed the boy, saving his life.”

“That’s impossible,” you declare, obstinance raising your chin at the tapestry’s obviously inaccurate depiction. “The only beings capable of healing are divine seraphim and their earthly vessel, Her Holiness, the Royal Priestess.”

Your defiance doesn’t surprise him, and he’s patronizingly patiently, continuing, “That is what our ancestors thought as well. But how could they deny it, when it was right before them? When a child was snatched from death’s grasp before their eyes?”

“It was a long time ago, you’d said. Perhaps your ancestors exaggerated in their records.”

“Perhaps. But that was only first miracle. The first of many.” Beckett smiles reminiscently, “I myself, am one of their miracles. As Gregor pointed out, Mercy saved my life. Illness is rarer now that we have gods’ gifts and prosperity. Rarer, but not unheard of. As a child I contracted a grave sickness. Our hospital’s physicians did their best for me and my condition did not improve. When the life from me was fading, that is when Mercy visited the hospital, as he often does. He brought me from my deathbed to perfect health. After that, I dedicated my life to documenting and studying the divine among us. If you don’t trust my promise—that I was healed by the grace of our gods—you could interrogate every inhabitant of this city and come away with thousands of accounts of miracles, big and small. You doubt my sincerity, but surely you cannot deny the word of so many people?”

It can’t be true. He’s lying. He has to have an angle, of some kind. What agenda such an elaborate lie would further, you have no idea. You’re silent, caught up in your head.

“You do not have to answer. The road has been long, that brought you here. You must be tired. I will find you a bath and lodgings. Once you are rested, we can continue our conversation.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lore, lore, lore. Next chapter reader gets to meet her first skelebro. 
> 
> I meant to update my other fic first but I've been replaying skyrim with a mod that let's you play as a skellie and of course I have to make her a necromancer, too. It's been giving me inspiration. Lol.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Novella_Stella and NekoChan16 for reminding me that it could get a bit confusing to know which god is from which AU. For everyone's convenience, here's a master list:
> 
> The Skeleton Pantheon  
> “Good” aligned:  
> Underswap/Guardian gods  
> Stretch—Justice  
> Blue—Mercy
> 
> Undertale/Deserter gods  
> Sans—Ennui  
> Papyrus—Ego
> 
> Horrortale/Hungry gods  
> Axe—Survival  
> Crooks—Spirit
> 
> “Neutral” aligned:  
> Inktale/??? gods  
> Ink—Creation  
> Error—Destruction
> 
> “Evil” aligned:  
> Underfell/Angry gods  
> Red—Carnage  
> Edge—Calamity
> 
> Swapfell/Greedy gods  
> Rus—Plague  
> Razz—Death
> 
> Fellswap/Wily gods  
> Mutt—Apathy  
> Black—Tyranny

Beckett guides you to the residential wing of the temple grounds. The lodgings are modest. Their walls of dark wood absorb much light, but its halls remain brightly lit. It resembles the luminance of daylight, yet it’s sourced from unnaturally glowing globes on the ceiling. If that weren’t unusual enough, there’s the bathrooms. They aren’t just for baths, here. You find yourself glad you do not produce waste any longer as the object Beckett claims to serve as a latrine looks like a fine sculpture, a ceramic toilet filled with clear water. There is no bucket for hand washing. Instead, there is a ‘sink’, as he calls it, which stands in front of a mirror. You avoid your reflection and wave the odd objects away. However, there is no dismissing the need for a bath. Your bones are grubby and your attire is worn and dusty.

As the fellow humans of this city are treating you as the same species, you feel obligated to freshen up for them. You ask where you can find a source of water to heat for your cleansing. Beckett baffles you by turning a knob on the tub to release a spring of steaming water. “Are you a water mage?” you inquire, intrigued at how such a valuable sorcerer could end up outside of the empire’s enlistment.

“No. Not a scrap of magical ability in me. The gods taught us to use pipes and pressure to control water for our convenience. Wonderful, wouldn’t you say?”

“Pipes,” you repeat uncertainly, watching the bath fill with impressive speed. “Where does the pressure come from?”

Beckett scratches the back of his head, ruffling his raven locks. “I couldn’t tell you. Isolda is Aysgarth’s head scientist. If you want to understand more about the gifts, she’d be the one to ask.”

Isolda…that sounds like a woman’s name. A woman, the authority of the natural sciences in this town? How unconventional. Female mages are allowed more freedoms than most due to their utility, but even then, it is highly discouraged for one to take on a position of leadership. It would be intriguing to meet Isolda and learn more of how she came into the title and these godly ‘gifts’, but for the time being you’re interested in finding the skeletons. You noncommittally respond, “Perhaps later.”

“Right.” Beckett nods, dawdling in the bathroom before realizing you’re waiting for him to leave so that you may disrobe. He clears his throat. “Right! Yes, I will take my leave. With your permission, my lady?”

Yet another of Aysgarth’s strange citizens, treating you like nobility. You send him away. The door is shut behind him and you shed your cloak. Layer by layer is dropped into a pile of dusty garments on the stone floor. You submerge yourself in the pleasantly heated water. Sighing, you lean against the back of the bath. It has been a long time since you’ve had the luxury of a warm soak. A while back you’d happened upon a hot spring, but for days afterward people who got close would scrunch their noses and complain of Sulphur. You wallow for a few minutes before starting to clean yourself.

Just as you begin, the door opens. Shocked, you stand from the water, trying to cover your pelvis and ribcage with your bony hands. You’re not sure why. You are no longer a sexual creature, the undead cannot reproduce and you have no means to do so. There is nothing but bare bone beneath your hands. You’d considered, on a few occasions, if you could summon your former genitalia as you had your tongue. Enjoying your own touch again might stave off the boredom and loneliness of your wretched existence. Regretfully, you can’t fully remember what you’d looked like. It’s not like you’d helped up a mirror to yourself, in life. You vaguely know that there’s a few holes down there and a spot that’d been very pleasurable to touch, but you have no idea how it all functioned. Without a clear picture of what you wanted your magic couldn’t manifest it.

The intruder respectfully averts her attention and shows you her back. There is a long, light blonde braid running down it. “Forgive me! I didn’t mean to give you a fright. Master Beckett sent me to help ye bathe and dress. I’m Beretrude, m’lady.”

Another oddity to add to the growing list. You’ve never had a chambermaid to scrub your back or cinch your corsets. In life, your friends had been your maids, and you theirs. You took care of each other and there was no need nor expense set aside for servants. “Y/N.” you gradually lower your hands from their protective stance. “Very well then. Carry on.”

She’s brought soap and a soft-bristled brush. The later is a blessed help. Your fingers aren’t spongy as they used to be. Using your hands to scrub yourself is like rubbing two stones together, and Beretrude rubbing her bare hands on your bones would’ve been too intimate for your comfort. The brush polishes the grit from your bones and leaves them as white as freshly fallen snow. 

She dries you off and leads you to the adjoining room to note your measurements. It strikes you just how foreign it has become to have another human in your personal space. She is perfectly professional and polite, but you can’t help but be hyperaware of her presence. It’d be incredibly unnerving if it weren’t for a mysterious intuition you feel from her touch. Whenever her flesh brushes your bones, you swear you can _feel_ her innocent desire to please as she performs her duties. You can’t be threatened by her as you sense her intentions are good. Is this some semblance of soul-seeing? Theoretically, any mage can sense souls. In practice, seership is reserved for the special few who the Empire elects as its eyes. The discipline requires much training and the information needed for said study is kept confidential on a ‘need to know’ basis by Her Holiness. You’d be hard pressed to find any answers on the subject.

Once Beretrude has completed taking and recording your assuredly absurd skeletal proportions, she falters while packing her tools into her knapsack. “Would you like for me to plait your hair, m’lady?” she asks.

Your hair? You feel for it over your shoulder. Right, your hair. Its presence is so ghostly that you hardly remember it’s there. It doesn’t help that most days you ignore it, stashing it under your hood along with your horns and other shamefully unnatural features.

“I…suppose so.” It is fitting for a lady to have her hair put up when in polite company. Since these humans are treating you like one, it’d be best to play the part. Her fingers dexterously weave your spectral locks. The gentle tugs of her braiding are pleasant. You feel her hope for your happiness radiating from her plaiting. It brings magic prickling at the edge of your sockets. You choke down a sob as you realize how much you’d missed such a simple human tradition. You’d entirely forgotten the soothing touch of hands in your hair. It hadn’t even been that long! Well. It hadn’t been a long time since you’d woke. It had been many, many, decades since you’d lived.

“Why?” your question comes out strangled and forlorn. Beretrude stiffens and waits for your clarification. “Why has everyone treated me this way? Are all strangers treated with such kindness here?”

“No. We try to treat everyone with the kindness that Mercy would want from us, but…you are special,” she claims, calming you with reassuring strokes down the length of your hair. “Fate has brought you to us.”

Beretrude speaks as if her words are self-evident. “How do you know?” you challenge softly.

“It’s plain as day. You bless us by being here.” Bless them? You have done nothing but scrounge off the townsfolks’ generosity. Her undue esteem must be a consequence of Aysgarth’s cultish undeath worship. She’s seeing you as another one of her skeleton gods, isn’t she? As if you’re just another fickle being that needs to be appeased. If that is the root of her kindness, you have no desire to eat its falsely sweet fruits.

“You have fulfilled your duties. I no longer have need of you,” you send her away cooly, now unduly practiced at it.

“Allow me to assist you in dressing,” she pleads, distressed by your blatant dismissal. “I have brought a selection of gowns for your perusal,”

“I will dress myself. Goodbye.” She wrings her hands together and gathers her things, leaving behind the clean clothes. She curtsies and removes herself from your temporary chambers. Once she is gone, you feel remiss with yourself. She was simply a youthful serving girl who wished to leave a good impression on you, the one who her naïve beliefs teach her might be divine. You resolve to leave a good word for her performance with Beckett to make up for your curtness.

The apparel sprawled across the bedding is of fine make and design. The dresses are far frillier and more feminine than what you’d have chosen for yourself. One nice consequence of being an undead freak is that people stop expecting you to mold into their standards of what a respectable woman should look like, allowing you to push the boundaries of what you could wear. You usually wear bulky, plain robes and on your bolder days, you’d even worn trousers. You were already too far from their customs to hope to fit in. But the humans of Aysgarth didn’t seem to think so. They are treating you like a lady and anticipating you to act like one. The expectations are restrictive, yet bizarrely refreshing. To have expectations of you outside those regarding your demonic and cursed nature is…new.

You don a gown of your favorite color and very reluctantly bring yourself before the mirror. You attempt to keep your focus on whether or not the ties are fastened neatly and your hair unmussed, but your attention snaps to your horns. The sight of them never fails inspires fear in you. Stars, they’re getting longer aren’t they? You thumb the tips. Yes, they’ve grown since you’d last been brave enough to check.

A knock on the chamber door pulls you from your agonizing observations. You open it, and join Beckett in the halls. He nods approvingly at your tidied state. “Are you hungry? Allow me to fetch you something before we proceed,” he offers.

Your diet is mostly plant-based, with a focus on fermented plants. They’re filling. They’re also more easily accessible and ingestible than other kinds of foods. You don’t have to fiddle with silverware in your clunky gloves or wipe away crumbs from your teeth after every bite. Gnawing venison without lips? Right mess, that is. Vinegar tastes better to you than liquor does, but people stare worse when they see you drinking vinegar. On the other hand, people tend to give you space when you’re chugging thrice-distilled fermented grain. Alcohol doesn’t affect you much anymore. You can get deep, deep in your cups and achieve only a light buzz. This has helped you blend right in at bars without losing your bearings. 

“A bottle of wine, if you would?”

Beck’s eyes bulge, “Wine? The sun has not yet set. Are you sure that you—” he halts his fretting and rights himself, “Ahem. Wine is an excellent choice. Red or white?”

“Either,” you answer. He retrieves a bottle of red from the cellar and presents it to you. Beckett begins to set out for a glass, but you decline. You simply sip from the uncorked bottle as he leads you to the temple’s sanctum for lessons.

“What were we discussing before? Ah, yes. the Arrival,” he picks up where he left off. “That decade was the period which held the first sightings of all the known gods. The last gods to appear were also the most powerful—Creation and his twin, Destruction. They brought about the Absconsion.”

He passes through the central chamber of tapestries and soaring ceilings to a study of sorts. There’s a map of the local region framed and hung between bookshelves. There’s a smattering of cities written in among the trees of the haunted forest. With deep sadness, you note the name of the recently destroyed town to the South. Knaptoft. This map has not yet been updated to reflect its loss. To the West of Aysgarth is Gardener’s Glen and Holmsfirth. North is Thorngarde.

Thorngarde is caged by inked lines. Not the ridges of a mountain, nor watery waves. You’re not sure what the boxy lines could represent. Beckett explains, “The Absconsion is named for the gods’ retreat from our land. They used to live among us. The formation of an immense, stone labyrinth changed that. It covers half of the haunted forest and entirely envelops Thorngarde. Creation is credited with its appearance. His godly paintbrush drew it into existence. It could not be any other way, as a maze of such scale would take centuries to construct without his divine magic. The gods found sanctuary in its depths. Where each one resides within, we do not know. It is dangerous to journey inside. There are tasks and trials at every turn. We have lost hope that we will ever hear from our neighbors in Thorngarde again. Within it, they are isolated. They were easy prey for the greedy gods. Plague and Death made the townsfolk ripe for Tyranny and Apathy. Last we heard, the four gods share the city.”

“Or whatever is left of it,” Beckett adds solemnly.

You stretch your phalanges towards the black lines of the labyrinth enclosing miles and miles of land. “Then, this entire region—”

“Is encased by unmappable walls of stone that morph and shift with the passing of each day? Yes.”

“Could I visit it?” you ask, causing Beckett to lift his brows and flick his gaze accusingly to the wine bottle in your grasp.

“That would be unwise. Unless you are accompanied by one of the gods, navigating the structure is impossible. You _did_ hear that its path changes direction every eve? That every step within its walls is riddled with constructions designed to deceive and incapacitate?”

“Yes.” you raise your nasal ridge ever so slightly in defense of your persevering pride. You know that it’s dangerous, but danger means something different to the undead. And if that is where your kindred freaks reside, that is where you’re going. He notes your stubborn resolve and ignores it, moving on.

“The Absconsion left many of our sister cities vulnerable to attack. The guardian gods defend us, the hungry gods defend Holmsfirth, but the deserter gods are named thusly for their abandonment of Knaptoft and the other fallen cities. Our guardians Justice and Mercy watch over us from their refuge in the labyrinth, but Ego and Ennui have no eyes here. They are uninterested in humanity.”

“The rest of our history is concerned with various miracles and conflicts between gods over the decades. Would you like to learn about our religious theory, next?”

You agree. Beckett brings you to a modest chapel. On each opposite wall is a shrine to a god of their pantheon. “Death,” he gestures to one, “and Plague. They are inseparable. And where Plague goes, Death follows.”

You scrutinize Plague’s side first. His shrine is covered in bundles of burning sage and a bowl of glittering coins. Above it is a portrayal of its deity.

He is shrouded by plumes of purple smoke. His one open socket is filled with reddish light, spare a single dark dot in the center which must serve as his pupil. The other is patched with gauze. His ashy undersockets make him appear sickly. He reminds you of a certain myth about necromancy. A dispiritingly large mass of the citizenry believe that demons can bypass their banishment through possession of the dead. Those who tout such twaddle would label you a puppet of the soul-suckers, helping them find unholy vessels for them to further their dark deeds. This is rubbish. It is your will, and your will alone, that you impose on the dead. Alternatively, the will of the revived can be restored if imbued with enough mana. You’ve never seen any of the supposed demon-controlled undead such as vampyres and ghouls. Yet, this skeleton’s fanged skull is oddly reminiscent of the lifeforce feeding variety of mythic undead. If a vampyre’s skin was burned into ash by sunlight, you imagine the bones left behind would look much like Plague’s. It’s a good thing you don’t have any blood left to drain.

You turn away from the painting’s sickly stare and analyze Death.

Death is not evil. It is natural, and therefore crucially valuable. This embodiment of Death does not reflect this. His broad grin is cruel, not kind. A tattered purple scarf flutters widely behind him and rests over a set of scaled chainmail. His scythe is soiled with blackened blood. His eyelights are puzzling. In his sockets are a symbol that looks like someone had taken the triangles of the demonic deltarune and assembled them into a pyramid. One is white, the other violet.

“Do you notice anything?” Beckett prompts. You scrutinize Death closer. Once the distracting novelty of his pyramidal eyelights has worn off, you notice his skull’s shape. It is the same exaggerated roundedness of another god you’d seen.

“Death looks an awful lot like Mercy,” you voice your realization.

“Yes. Some would go as far as to say Death is Mercy, only under a different Alignment. You see, every god has a twin. The Divine exist in Dualities which repeat themselves. Each Duality is composed not of opposites, but compliments. Take for instance, our guardian gods. Justice is not the inverse of Mercy. Neither are they particularly alike. They are two faces of the same key concept, which is their alignment—Protection. Each of these Dualities fall under an Alignment which dictate the gods’ motivations.”

“What is _their_ alignment?” you gesture at the chapel’s ominous twins.

“They are gods of greed. They will take and take and take, never satisfied until nothing is left.”

“And you worship such beings? Why?”

“Some pray for Plague and Death to visit their enemies. Many more wish to obtain their favor, so that they will be spared when the Harbingers bring our last reckoning. The most ubiquitous of our belief’s theories is that evil-aligned gods, of greed, anger, and wiles, will one day join forces. When Plague, Death, Carnage, Calamity, Apathy, and Tyranny work together, they will bring our Ultimate Destruction. They are the Harbingers of our doom.”

“Oh,” you respond meekly. You are not sure if these Harbingers are company you’d like to seek. You think it best to focus on finding the skeletons _not_ engaged in bringing the destruction of humanity. “Are the other gods preventing them from carrying out this ‘last reckoning’?”

“Yes and no,” Beckett replies, eyes shining with enthusiasm at the chance to share his knowledge. “Our guardian gods protect us from the Harbingers’ attacks, but they are not the only ones delaying our doom. It is speculated that the real reason they have not joined forces to destroy us is incongruities within. As you can imagine, the anger-aligned gods do not agree with Apathy. Death and Carnage dispute often, as well. Each of them seeks to reap our souls and despise sharing their spoils.”

Your head whirls with this information. It’s rather more abstract than you’d expected, these evil gods kept from their apocalyptic agenda by their own petty feuds. When the traveler spoke of an undeath cult, you’d imagined it be centered around a base, primitive dedication to unnaturally extending life. That could’ve been disregarded as foolishness out of hand. This, however, is more complex. You’ll need to know more.

You spend the days before the festival studying religious theory with Beckett. He introduces you to Isolda, who interrogates you rigorously about your nature. She records what you eat, how often you sleep, and myriad other odd details about you. “For science”, she says. She explains Aysgarth’s baffling control over light, water, and electricity, but her jargon goes right through your skull. What she teaches about their government, however, sticks with you. It seems that decades ago they’d done away with their Empire-assigned Lord. Instead, they nominate a head to oversee the three important public domains—Religion, Science, and Military. On issues that concern the city as a whole, the three convene in a council. You’d doubted that Empire would stand for such radical self-governance but Isolda insisted that as long as they’d continued offering their young mages to Her Holiness for conscription, they’re left alone.

You enjoy your time with Beckett and Isolda, but when the day of the festival arrives you’re thrilled at the opportunity to finally see another sentient skeleton. The excitement abounds beyond yourself. The population is teeming with merry spirits and the three heads of the city conspired to commission you a custom dress for the occasion. It is ridiculously ornate. It is also black, as a wedding dress would be, which you assume is due to differences in local tradition. The showiness of the dress, however, cannot be attributed to cultural differences. You know by the citizenry’s modern modesty that a backless dress is not normal. It seems to simply _scream_ “skeleton!!!” with its strategic keyholes above your sternum and the way the sleeves are slit to show your ulna and radius. Despite your discomfort with displaying so much bone, you’d be remiss to seem ungrateful in denying their gift and you don the sumptuous garment.

The anniversary of their guardian gods’ arrival is spent sipping superbly flavorful spirits and trying not to dirty the long skirts of your gown as you navigate the marketplace with Beckett by your side. By the time the daylight dims and disappears, you’ve grown tired of sampling street food and smiling at strangers, wishing to witness the unique festivities that are gathering in the town square where the 'gods' may show themselves.

“I would like to attend the festival,” you remind, phalanges smoothing the intricate folds of your dress. You’re uncomfortable asking anything of the people who have already give you so much, but Beckett keeps guiding you in the wrong direction.

His expression dims at your insistence. “You are needed elsewhere.” He points his arm in the direction of the temple. You don’t follow and wait for him to finish. “I will explain. Later,” he promises, voice urgent now, brisk.

Heaving a heavy exhale to dismiss the tension arising at his uncharacteristic brusqueness, you follow him in silence, watching the belt of his robes sway with his harried strides. The temple steps are empty and abandoned. The citizenry is gathered in the square for the celebration. You should be with them. Not here, where the sanctuary’s grand interior is chilling in the absence of its worshippers warming the atmosphere with their candles and prayers. The ceremonial candles are glum and unlit, grotesque in their half-melted misshapenness. The room is illuminated by the torches sparsely sconced between the tapestries and the ceiling’s circular window bathing the central altar in moonlight.

Beckett’s pace relaxes once the temple’s heavy doors shut behind you and he ambles to stand in the cold light streaming over the room’s heart. He doesn’t look at you, only the depictions of his deities surrounding him. “The gods have given us much,” he begins humbly, “We can grant so little in return.”

Your attention catches on the offerings that circle the base of the altar. Ceramics full of honeycomb, ornate sets of armor, and jars of ground wheat. There are gems and gold strewn among bundles of fresh flowers. This cache doesn’t look ‘little’ to you. This is a sizable bounty, fit for royalty. Though, you suppose there is no measuring or matching the technological advancements bestowed on this city, nor the protection against destructive forces.

Beckett continues after drawing a long breath. His tone is schooled with a practiced academic detachment, “When an opportunity presents itself, to give the gods something that they desire, that they seek…We cannot deny it.”

The altar’s surface has been scrubbed clean of wax and sits empty. Not completely empty, you realize. Metal shackles have been bolted into the stone. The manacles are ominously open. They wait for their intended occupant. Could it be you? Your soul drops into icy terror. Is that why they brought you here, away from the festivities?

You scurry backwards and collide with an unyielding cuirass. Above it, is the face of Gregor. You hadn’t noticed him arrive, nor heard his weighty, booted footfalls. You flail in the aftermath of the collision and he rights you before you can fall, holding the tops of your humeri with a steel grip. “Release me!” you demand, forcing malice into your voice to mask the fear.

His bushy brows descend into a grave rectitude. He doesn’t relinquish his hold, only insisting, “Beck is right. There will never be another opportunity to gain the gods’ favor. Not like this. Not in our lifetimes.”

A third subject slinks from the shadows. Isolda. Her overcoat’s buttons flash with warm torch light as she makes her presence known. Like the others, her countenance is sympathetic but callous to your resistance. “Please understand, blessed one,” she implores. “Generations ago, we were bestowed with sacred knowledge. A glimpse of Mercy’s soulmark. Our town was entrusted with the divine bride’s name—Y/N.”

You protectively clutch the name of your soulmate over your radius. It doesn’t read Mercy. But its incomprehensible script could say anything. It didn’t disappear when a human’s lifespan had passed. An immortal god with an unknown, divine language…it seems to fit perfectly…

Isolda approaches you, pulling a slender glass bottle from the folds of her dress. “Allow us to deliver you to him. Mercy is strong and kind. He will make the perfect match.” She lifts the vial to your teeth, placing a pale, cold hand on your cheekbones.

“Deliver me?” you turn your mouth from her potion as your mind catches on her unusual choice of words.

“We cannot bring you directly to him,” Beckett elucidates. “It would be dangerous, and profane, to invade the gods’ domain. But tonight, we have a unique opening. They bless us our celebrations with their presence. At midnight, when all have abandoned the temple, they collect our offerings. Tonight, you will be among them.”

You stare at the hoard of beautiful and valuable objects that have been left for the gods’ collection. _You will be among them_ , he says. You feel sick. That is not how one should meet their one true love. It should be on even footing, as equals and in fate-blessed encounters. You are not a gift, or an offering. You are Y/N. You are human and deserve humane treatment. Whoever your soulmate is should understand that. You refuse, shaking your skull and straining against Gregor’s grip on your arms. If their gods truly arrived from another world, another plane of existence, how could you expect them to recognize the importance of the ink on your bones? Would Mercy see the soulmate mark on you and fancy you as _his_ , an object branded by his name? You think it particularly likely that he would if he found you bound and bracketed with the items gathered in offering.

Isolda recognizes your distress and cloyingly strokes your cheekbone. “The potion will not hurt you. It will pull you into a peaceful slumber, so that you may awaken once the gods have welcomed you into their realm,” she addresses you with insincere concern. “It is only a kindness, so that you mustn’t suffer unnecessarily in anticipation while you await your soulmate.”

“No. I will not be subjected to this. If you have any decency in your souls, any respect for the natural order, you will unhand me this instant!” you thrash desperately, spirits lifting with hope as Gregor’s grip lightens marginally with your words.

Isolda ceases her false comforts and attempts to force apart your jaw, clenched and locked shut. She cannot. Instead, she pours the potion into one of your eyes. It scalds as it coats the inside of your skull. You jerk your head forward, spilling some from your sockets. The remnants are defensively broken down by your magic. Your head becomes fuzzy. Your neck can’t fully support it and your skull slumps.

“Wha…t is…th…” you struggle to form words and Gregor releases one of your humeri to support your skull. You sluggishly survey him. “wh…why?”

He winces and look away. “She’s still awake,” he notes with dissatisfaction.

“But cooperative,” Isolda insists. “She will not bring dishonor to us or the gods when they arrive.”

“Bring her over,” Beckett calls from his place beside the altar. Gregor obeys, dragging you over and draping you on its stone surface. You can’t keep your eyelights active. They flicker and eventually extinguish, leaving you in the dark. Someone gathers your arms and brings them to the harsh metal of the manacles. Their chains chime and rattle as they’re woven around your wrists. Distant voices prattle meaninglessly.

“Gregor, your men are guarding the doors?”

“Correct.”

“We have done well. Our descendants will look with pride upon our actions today.”

“I only wish we could wait with her. Witness Mercy’s expression as he lays eyes on his bride for the first time. I would love to have the moment immortalized. One of our painters could follow my description.”

“Bookworm Beck,” a woman’s voice chastises. It sounds so, so far away. “Always with the paintings, the pages of notes…you know as well as I that we cannot impose on such a sacred moment. Leave her. She is for the gods, now.”

The voices disappear and leave you shivering against the uncomfortable rocky bed you’re on. It is dark and cold. Your eye aches dully. Several hours of solitude pass in a pensive daze and your mind gradually begins to clear. Your bones are still heavy and your will still weak, but you manage to reignite your sight.

You blearily lift your vision to your captured wrists. The bindings would be easy for your bony wrists to slip out of if they hadn’t been looped between your ulna and radius. You yank your arms down with all the strength you can muster. There’s no give, only pain. You cannot escape without breaking either your bones or the chains. You manage to scan your surroundings. There is no other soul, living or dead, within your range. Not so much as a dead rat for you to recruit in this obnoxiously pristine structure.

Your skull sags against the altar in defeat. You gaze longingly at the night through the skylight above you. It’s too cloudy to see the stars. Your mind is similarly cloudy as your eyes wander over the ceiling’s paintings. They snag on the first skeleton you see. Justice, you recognize from Beckett’s teachings. Though his half-grin is lazy, his stare is anything but and the sharpness of it shocks you. It is piercing. Judging. One moment, you’re staring at the artwork of and the next you’re startled by its subject appearing out of midair.

He’s _real_. At least, you think he’s real. Mind’s too muddled to be sure. Just like you, he has glowing eyes in his sockets. His attire is strange, an uncommonly bright orange…coat, of some sort. It’s of simple design with only twin strings adorning the clothing’s collar. You’re not sure if it’s your merely your prone position, but he towers over you despite his slouched posture.

You startle at his sudden appearance beside you, wriggling in your bonds. His eyelights snap to where your bound bones are straining, then to the spot on your radius where your soulmate mark rests. You hear the sudden intake of breath through his nasal bones. He’s stunned, and in his moment of openness you seek his assistance, words slurred and vague but hopefully recognizable, “Pl…ease…help…me”

He reacts to your voice, but not your words. He smiles. Not the usual, eerie grin created by the natural gaps between maxilla and mandible, but something softer. He doesn’t acknowledge your plea besides a tipping of his head closer to your throat, where you hear him inhale again. This time slowly, seemingly savoring your scent.

That…can’t be. He doesn’t have a nose! Your potion addled mind must be imagining things. Though, you supposed you’re breathing without lungs and hearing without ears. Perhaps he’s figured out something you haven’t and learned to smell without that protuberance of flesh and cartilage that allows for olfactory sensation. Maybe you could ask him and find out—No. You shouldn’t care about that right now. The important thing is that you’re tied up and this skeletal stranger is sniffing you! Before you can voice your protests, his hand descends on your arm. A burst of chaotic magical energy and everything disappears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, you are transported into the labyrinth of gods. Finally, I can stop writing human OCs and get into the good stuff.
> 
> Can I get an F in the chat for all the women throughout history who lived and died not knowing what their clitoris was? Female reproductive knowledge still isn’t all that well taught or understood so back in the dark ages you know they had it pretty damn bad. Very sad to think about. At least Reader has some skelebois who’d be happy to help her figure it all out ;)
> 
> You may have noticed that the Horrortale bros are "good" aligned in this fic. To hunger is human. I'll be writing Axe very differently than I do in my other fic and we'll learn more about all that later.
> 
> Thank you for all your wonderful comments. They make me cry happy tears :')


	4. Chapter 4

Nothingness. Your eyelights dilate to search for the smallest speck of light and there’s none to be found. The infinite dark lasts for an eerie, unnatural instant before your vision brightens with the leaking of lamplight from beneath a doorframe. It is meager, but enough for you to surmise the basic shape and structure of the room. Its width is no more than a few wagons across. There are no windows or arching ceilings. You’re not in the temple anymore.

Instantaneous travel, without taking so much as a step…that’s not possible. You must have blacked out and been transported here while unconscious. But then, why are you standing? Justice holds you upright. His touch feels happy, hopeful, and you are neither of those things. You are disoriented and afraid. You yank yourself from his flimsy clasp. “Where…where am I?”

He answers in his incomprehensible tongue. His voice is honeyed, reassuring. The rumbling gibberish almost succeeds at soothing you…until your sight strays from the mysterious black mirror atop the bureau to a large bed. He’s taken you to his bed chambers. For what purpose, it doesn’t take much to puzzle together. Perhaps he expects a ‘reward’ for removing you from your bonds. Whisking you from one trap to another. This undead brute! You may have lost your most of your sexual attributes, but the instinctive fear of being taken advantage of hasn’t left you. You startle and back away from him. Your feet catch on clutter and you land on your tailbone. Still, you scramble, seeking to separate yourself from the other skeleton.

It’s then that he seems to finally realize your distress. His teeth pull into a tense line. He tilts his skull downwards and he shows the palms of his hands, lifting them in submission. It’s too little, too late. You’re terrified. You scan the area for corpses. At last, fortune is on your side! There’s a clump of dead bugs filling the ceiling-globe. It produces no light, but you recognize the electric lamps as one of the ‘gifts’ Isolda taught you about. The insects must have been drawn to its false flame. They won’t put up much of a fight, but they’ll be enough to provide a distraction.

You imbue their soul-shells with your will. The undead moths storm from the lamp to swarm Justice. Their powdery white wings form an angry cloud around him. They seek his weak spots and dive into his skull, battering themselves against his bones with their diminutive bug bodies. He swats at them, spouting something that sounds suspiciously like swearing. You don’t stick around to listen.

You dash past him to the door, jerking it open into a hallway with rounded walls. There’s a square of darkness from a window. Hurriedly looking through it, you discover you’re in a tower. It’s an ancient, worn down looking thing. It might be older than the Empire itself. You consider climbing down its blocky stone exterior…No, you’re too high up. A fall from this height would break your leg bones. Then where would you be? Entirely unable to run away from Justice.

You turn from the window and sprint down the hallway. Stairs spiral downwards and you follow them, lifting your skirts to not trip over the billowing fabric. Damn this dress. And damn the people who’d given it to you. They’d treated you as a human not because they actually saw you that way. _Of course_ not. In their eyes, it was entirely ethical to sacrifice you like a lowly animal. You were, perhaps, _lower_ than an animal, to them. Just a moving corpse, a will-less puppet. Damn them! Demons take them, the churlish, doghearted, shallow-minded—!

Anger adds fuel to your frightful descent downwards. You pay no mind to the oddities occupying the darkened rooms you pass. The various metal boxes with small glowing symbols are ignored as your eyes are employed in making sure Justice is not in pursuit. You crane your neck to check behind you. Engrossed in paranoia, you misplace your next step.

“Zounds!” you curse, colliding with the tower’s outer wall with bone bruising force. You stagger off it, rashly righting yourself. You can’t stop. You must get out of here, wherever ‘here’ is. If only Dusty were with you. She could carry you far, far away. You should have never let your guard down enough to leave her bones behind. The cultists’ crafty kindness made you complacent. You won’t be so quick to trust again.

The stairs end on ground level. They drop you off into a wide-open space filled by a fireplace, several sturdy armchairs, and—Yes! There’s a door built into the rounded walls of the tower. That must be the exit! You’re halfway to it when it opens abruptly.

Mercy steps inside. He stops himself when he catches sight of you. He wears a full suit of armor adorned with signs of the night’s celebration. Wreaths of fresh flowers wrap loosely around his collar and laurel crown sits on his skull, its shape stranger in person. You’re frozen in your frantic escape, lost in the moment. Could this be your soulmate? He asks you something, voice expressive and powerful.

When you fail to answer, his big blue eyelights waver in trepidation and his concern is obvious as he calls out. He retrieves a ceremonial sword from his scabbard, crossing it defensively before him. He must mean to look intimidating. With the way he’s squeezed his skeletal hands into the narrow basket hilt to wrongly wield the one-handed weapon …he fails to deter you. You doubt his sword is sharp enough to slice your dense bones, or heavy enough to break them. You ignore the brandished edge of his weapon and stride towards him, lifting the script of your soulmark into his line of sight. You tap the tattoo and nervously watch for his reaction to it. “Is this you?” you press, articulating your timid hope, your distal caressing the characters that might make up his name. 

He sucks in a breath and drops the sword. It clanks onto the rocky floor. Thankfully, he doesn’t try to scent you or grab you, as the other skeleton did when he saw it. He steps over the sword to stare intently, shifting his shocked sights to your soulmark and back to your face. It seems to sink in as his eyelights become starry. He chatters excitedly and begins to remove one of his gauntlets.

You step back. Is he planning on flinging it at your feet in challenge? You have no desire to duel him. Luckily, he does not throw down the gauntlet. He places it on the cushion of an armchair and shoves his exposed hand forward. There it is. Y/N, inscribed in black lettering. It’s bold against the white of his bones. How can this be? For fate to be so fickle in life and bless you in undeath…you’re dumbstruck. You take his marked hand in yours, double and triple checking to make certain your eyelights aren’t deceiving you.

Meanwhile, Mercy allows you to inspect his arm. Your inquisitive intent prickles and pokes at his palm. As you turn his mark into the light, the fire’s flickering light illuminates the bruises where your bones were bound. His excitement dims into dread. The change in atmosphere makes you stop yourself from scrutinizing the soulmark and meet Mercy’s eyes. They’re shrunken in distress. He leads you to a chair besides the hearth and lowers you into it. He slowly slips his hands out of your grip and rests them above your injuries. He kneels at your feet, delicately holding your lower arms over your lap.

An emerald mist exudes from his fingerbones. You are swathed in the glorious embrace of divine light. It brightens every corner of your mind and body. You feel your sins washed away by Mercy. The green glow envelopes your wounds and dissipates, leaving your bones immaculate. It’s beautiful. When it’s over, you feel magic fill your sockets and drip down your cheekbones as you look at your healer in awe.

His skull is half shadowed from the firelight. Its radiance flushes him with orange that contrasts charmingly with his bright blue eyelights. He’s not like you. He’s…more, somehow. A sentient skeleton that wields healing magic. It challenges everything you thought you knew. For now, your mind centers on one of the many astonishing implications of this— _your soulmate is a seraph!_

You collapse into his arms, kneeling in front of him on the floor and sobbing into the molded metal covering his shoulders. How could a being as wretched and cursed as you be the destined companion of a creature whose perfected nature allows him to command the divine light? You have no idea, but you refuse to let your self-doubt come between you. You wouldn’t let _anything_ come between you and your soulmate.

Mercy’s plate mail clinks as he encircles his arms around you. You feel his bones rattle. Drops of his azure magic dampen your ecto-hair. A seraph and a sympathy crier, it seems. You laugh tearily in delight and utter bafflement at the unimaginably stark turns this day has taken. He pulls away. For this first time since you met, his gaze isn’t on you.

You turn to follow it and see—Oh. It’s _him_. Justice slowly slinks down the steps, shoulders scrunched in shyly. You shrink into the support of your soulmate’s hug. Your will-filled undead moths still cover the tall skeleton. It seems they calmed as you did. They no longer attack him, merely meandering over his orange coat. When one becomes captivated by the light in his sockets and strays too close to the inner void of his skull, he gingerly plucks it by the wings and relocates it to his shoulder. Many of them have ended up there, lazily flapping their wings, their legs clinging to the folds of fabric around his neck. His gentleness is wasted as they cannot feel pain. And yet, seeing the care he takes with your magic-imbued moths makes you warm to him…slightly. Mercy’s healing has cleared your mind of the foggy fear and anger, but you haven’t forgotten the baffling behavior that’d brought you here.

Here. To your soulmate. You suppose you should credit Justice with that, at least. It counts for something. Still, you vigilantly keep watch on the skeleton brute from the comfortable shelter of your soulmate’s arms.

* * *

Stretch is stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid! What was he thinking, shortcutting you into his room? He _wasn’t_ thinking. He saw you, the only female skeleton monster he’s ever seen, in a sultry black dress and tied to the bed— _Altar_. Tied to the altar—and all sense left him. Your voice had been so sleepy and sexy. It should have occurred to him, you were drugged, being held there against your will by those misguided humans. But in that moment, he felt like all was right in the world. As if everything in life was perfect because it’d all led him to you. And that was before he saw his name on your arm, alongside his brother’s. According to the humans of this weird world, that meant you were soulmates.

Your soul is supposedly destined for his and Stretch still managed to screw it up. He shudders, feeling a creeping itch in his sockets as he recalls how you’d lashed out at him earlier. Seeing you summon a small army of bugs to swarm him had been terrifying. A lot about you is terrifying, actually. Those horns of yours are sharp and menacing. The dark pigment of them shadows your skull around their base. Your hair is white and ghostly, casting a subtle, spectral light over your cheek and neck bones. Your eyelights are perfect spheres of light, pupil-less and unflinching even when afraid. Those eyes...he can't meet them. Can't see the accusation there. He can't look at his brother either, with your proximity.

Instead he focuses on your moths and your magical signature in them. They once radiated terror and fury, now they're content and languid. They’re almost cute, for being corpses. How had you controlled the dead as if they're a gaster blaster? Could all monsters in this universe do that kind of magic? You’re the only native monster he’d seen. He wants to ask you where the others are, but that’s going to be difficult. You speak the same strange language as the humans. He can’t understand it. He has adequate linguistic skills when there’s a rosetta stone, a reference that he can directly compare to his known languages, but there is none. There’s hardly any literature at all, outside of the cities that’d he’d taught to build a printing press.

“Papyrus?” Blue questions, sternly staring up at him from the stone floors, sockets narrowed. Stretch’s soul sinks at the use of his real name in that tone. “Why Is Our Soulmate Scared Of You?”

He toys with his hoodie strings. How can he answer that…how can he tell his perfectly chivalrous brother that he’d teleported you without warning. To his bedroom, of all places. He may have unintentionally ignored your pleas for help and _sniffed you_ instead. ~~You smelled delicious.~~ He wants to hide in his hood, but he doesn’t want to disturb your little moths that are nesting there.

“And Where Did She Come From?” Blue continues to press, removing his reproachful eyes from Stretch to examine you in his arms.

That, Stretch can answer. “humans captured her. tied her up with all the honey and loot they give us this time of year.” 

“Oh,” Blue deflates a bit, dismayed that the humans he tries to help had hurt you. An epiphany has him puffing up again, but not with happiness. “ _Oh_. Is Y/N Afraid Of You Because Of Your…Papyrus Problem?”

Stretch sighs. Sharing a universe with so many alternate versions of themselves, they’ve put together a few similarities. He doesn’t relate much to the other Papyri but there’s a few difficulties they all have share. One is their laugh. The over the top, embarrassingly extra, ‘nyeh-heh-heh-he’s of varying volumes and intensities. It’s not a problem, per se, for the ‘original’ Papyrus but Stretch hates it. Another one is the impossibility of any of them finding pants that fit their long legs without getting them custom fitted. That isn’t what Blue is talking about, though. The worst of the ‘Papyrus problems’ is their shared proclivity to be a little _too_ happy to see someone caught in their traps. It’s not always sexual. Some Papyri, such as the edgy menace, simply like seeing the struggle of a subdued foe. Stretch doesn’t even enjoy making traps like the others. Yet seeing you caught in one…bound with so many bones on display…he makes himself blush, thinking about it.

It’s so embarrassing that Blue knows about it. He noticed his younger brother would take his sweet time before releasing any of the humans who’d gotten too close to the tower and fallen into their pillow-pit or gotten tangled in their webs of string. At first, Blue thought it was laziness. But when Rus had made a lewd joke about bondage in one of their council meetings, Blue put the pieces together. 

Stretch is already ashamed enough. He can’t handle his brother rebuking him for it. He hits his fruity flavored vape and leans against the wall a good distance from you. Luckily, Blue drops it. His attention returns to you and their inked names on your radius. Stretch has a marking like that too. It’s right on his ribcage. It’d appeared whenever he’d popped into this universe. It’d confused him. Especially since on him, his brother, and all the other alternate versions of them it said the same thing—Y/N. They couldn’t read it, but Blue had gotten the humans to read it for him. He’d spent weeks saying the foreign name under his breath and singing it in the shower. He believes these human’s myths about destiny and soulmates. Stretch isn’t so sure yet.

Blue points at the first letter of his name, sounding it out for you. “Sans. S-ah-ns. Ssss…”

You follow along, trying out “Sss…”

“Annn,” his finger moves to the next letters.

You repeat indistinctly, “Ahnn…”

“Ss,” He finishes going through the steps and runs it through again, faster. “Sans.”

“Sss…ss..Sahnds. Sands,” you speak slowly, unsure.

He perks up at your approximation of his name. “Very Close! Almost There!”

You gain confidence at his praise. “Sands!” you celebrate, a bit prematurely. Your accent is adorable. Blue can’t bring himself to correct you. Stretch solemnly watches the moth crawling down the leg of his khakis. He’d like to teach you his name. Hear you say it in that lovable drawl of yours….but if he showed you your name on his ribs now…while you were afraid of him…he can picture your distraught disappointment. You’re happy, believing that just Sans is your soulmate. He won’t ruin that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No fear—neither Author nor Reader have forgotten about Dusty. We’ll be seeing more of her.  
> There’s lore, and then there’s “all Papyri have bondage-related kinks” lore. Lol.  
> You’ve heard of Sans Serif, now get ready for… Sands the Seraph!  
> …  
> I’ll see myself out.


	5. Chapter 5

Blue vibrates with excitement as you teach him your name. He’d been pronouncing it incorrectly, putting an emphasis on the wrong syllable. He likes your version more. It’s foreign yet familiar. “Y/N,” he enunciates, grinning as you nod and smile in approval.

Now that you’re properly acquainted, Blue’s preoccupation can return to fretting over your wellbeing. Are you sleepy? Hungry? Hurt? He’d healed your recent injuries, but you have old scratches and scars that should have repaired themselves long ago. He’s worried that whatever the humans have done to you has left you weak. He hopes that all you need is a good meal and rest.

“Let’s Have A Family Dinner!” he announces, eager to initiate you into his inner circle with a healthy helping of friendship tacos.

Stretch is less eager. He loiters against the wall by the stairs. He glances up from absentmindedly playing with your moths to reply, “bro…it’s two in the morning.”

“Mweh-heh-heh! It Is Never Too Early Nor Too Late For Bonding Over Tasty Food! What Do You Think, Y/N?”

It feels natural to talk to you even if you don’t understand what he’s saying. You can’t answer, but Blue uses your attention, freshly snagged from the use of your name, to mime eating. He then points a thumb to the stairs where the kitchen is the next flight up. He repeats the gestures a few times and waits for your response. You pretend to hold a bottle in one hand, tilting your skull back in a show of mock-drinking. When you’re done, you lower you head and quirk it to the side in silent question.

Blue appreciates how endearing you are for a second before responding, “Oh, I Get It! Yes, We Have Many Delicious Drinks! Papy, Do We Still Have The Spider Cider That Ink Made For Us?”

Not for the first time tonight, Stretch looks guilty. “drank the last of it yesterday. sorry.”

He allows himself to be disappointed for a moment before remembering aloud, “What About The Cider In The Super-Secret Sweets Stash?”

“what super-secret sweets stash?” Stretch asks, skepticism sitting plainly on his skull.

Blue’s smile widens to comical proportions. “Exactly!” he exclaims. He’s giddied with the small victory that you’d be able to share in one of Muffet’s amazing culinary creations. He’s lucky that Ink is around so he doesn’t even need to return to his old universe to pick up his favorites, they can just be painted into existence by his colorful, creative friend!

You allow Blue to lead you up the stairs, mischievously gleeful intent emanating from the hand holding yours, but not before you collect your moths. The legion of winged insects fly from Stretch’s shoulder to disappear behind your collarbone. He watches with curiosity. Is that how you desummon your bone attacks? Does using bugs’ exoskeletons even count as a bone attack? Sans isn’t sure but he’d love to learn from you, though not before you’ve been fed!

He bounds up the stairs with you, pausing when he hears a single pair of footfalls following him, instead of two. Blue turns to see Stretch is standing stopped a few steps from the bottom, looking lost. His slack jaw clenches closed with a click once he’s caught staring. His eyelights are stuck on you and once you swivel to follow Blue’s attention, he understands why.

Your back is bare. The entire upper column of your spine is exposed down to where it sensually curves to accommodate the forward-tilt of your pelvis. The rear of your ribcage is framed by black fabric. It doesn’t conceal half as much as it accentuates your pale and pristine bones. They’re close enough to touch. The temptation to strum the stripes of snowy, smooth ribs has Blue locking his hands together behind his back. 

_Oh Dear. No Wonder Papy Is Having Trouble._ Magic heats his cheekbones as he tries not to inappropriately peer into the shade of your chest cavity. It’s small size relative to your hips is so…so… _seductive_. Blueberry tears his eyes away from your exposed back but the flickers of movement amongst your shadows keeps drawing his attention. Your moths’ wings reflect flashes of ashy light as they restlessly roost inside your ribcage. They agitate as you look back and forth between the brushing brothers, baffled.

Blue is a bit too hot for his armor. He amends how the metal plating rests on his shoulders and lifts the bottom of the cuirass to take the weight off for a moment. The heaviness of the metal is for increased training efficiency rather than defense, and right now it’s too much. His ribcage feels constricted and he’s having trouble taking full breaths.

You make his sign for eating, using one hand as a mock bowl and the other mimicking the use of cutlery to shovel its contents into your mouth. You repeat it and then splay your lower arms to the sides and lift your palms if asking, ‘What’s the hold up?’

“We Need To Get You New Clothes, Y/N,” Blue expresses regretfully, persisting in his attempts to adjust his breastplate. Under it, his soul is about ready to burst through.

“no shit.” Stretch swears softly under his breath.

“Don’t Curse Around Our Soulmate! That’s Crass!” he stops his fidgeting with the armor for a second to scowl meaningfully at his baby brother. Stretch just scoffs and pulls off his sweatshirt. His tank top is almost lifted off with it, but if falls back down as he balls the orange hoodie and extends it towards you.

Blueberry watches your reaction with interest. Seeing Stretch’s spine and the bottom of his ribcage seemingly had little effect. You don’t blush or look away, only evenly looking down at where he stands several steps below you. The clementine coat is met with a crossing of your arms across your chest. You shake your skull and refuse to accept what’s offered.

“I Don’t Think She Likes It, Papy. It Probably Smells Like Smoke. When’s The Last Time You Washed It?”

Stretch clutches the sweatshirt back to his chest protectively, abashed at your rebuff and his brother’s summation of it. “…a while ago.”

“I Thought So. Let Me Get Her Some Clean Clothes, You Go Set The Table.” Blue bosses, one hand on his hip, his other hand reaching to re-entangle itself with yours.

Papyrus grumbles and teleports away, presumably to prepare the kitchen for company. You gasp at his sudden disappearance. Your shock is visible only in your slightly parted teeth, but Blue can feel how off-put you are. A lot of your expressions are understated, he realizes. It’s as if you’re unused to expressing emotion outwardly. As if…you’d had no one to express those emotions _to_. The thought makes Blue somber and he tries to whisk it away as he guides you to his room.

_One_ of his rooms at least. The keep has ample space for them to spread out, so he furnished multiple sleeping quarters that he uses based on his mood. Stretch does the same, though it didn’t take long for all of his rooms to become messy. Blueberry drags you to the nearest one, which happens to be the one decorated like something out of a storybook. This is where much of the human-given loot ends up, bejeweled swords hanging over the hearth and fine golden jewelry is displayed decoratively on his shelves. Instead of a closet, he uses an adeptly carved chest of drawers.

A chest of drawers that currently has Stretch’s maid costume hanging from a handle. His brother must have taken a detour before setting the table. Blue rushes over to it, decreeing, “I Promise You Y/N, This Is Not Mine Nor Do I Intend For You To Wear It! A Poorly Timed Prank On Papy’s Part.” He hides it behind his back in humiliation. “Thoroughly Japed By The Devious Papyrus!”

His playful embarrassment swiftly morphs into something darker as he realizes—You’re not upset by the sight of the frilly maid dress. You’re frozen in the doorway of his room, icy in fear at the four-poster bed dominating the space.

_Wait_. He’d told you he was getting you food and then taken you to his bedroom, hadn’t he? He yelps in disappointment at his own un-knightly behavior and jumps to correct it. He rushes to you in the doorway and cautiously cups his hand to the back of your neck so you can sense the remorse radiated off him. You calm somewhat, but the feel of his phalanges against your spine’s ridges reminds him that he still urgently needs to get you dressed into something less ‘distracting’, without you thinking that he was doing anything dishonorable.

“This Is Quite The Puzzle. How About You Stay Here While I Collect The Clothes,” Blue points to you and the spot you stand. “Then, We’ll Trade Places And I Will Stand By The Door While You Change.”

He finishes gesticulating the plan and is met with your blank look. He didn’t make much sense to you, did he? Blue scratches the back of his skull. That’s okay. You’ll figure it out together. He wanders back to the dresser and searches for something suitable. He wishes he had fancy dresses for you to wear. The sole dresses in the tower are that ridiculous maid costume crumpled on the floor where he’d dropped it and the one you’re wearing, _which isn’t an option_. The other one isn’t an option either, considering the inhabitants of this universe find showing any more leg than ankles to be immodest. He doesn’t think you’d appreciate the maid outfit stopping halfway down your femur.

Blue blushes as he imagines you wearing it regardless. No, he needs to focus! Clothes that fit you… _appropriate_ clothes that fit you…aha! He fishes out a t-shirt from the bottom of the drawer. He doesn’t wear garments from his universe much anymore, but he’d kept this one because it’s _so_ _cool_. It’s an acid wash black printed with an illustration of three wolves howling at the moon! You remind him of a wolf. It’s the sharpness of your stare or the way you bravely ignored his brandished sword to stalk towards him with a hunter’s grace. Really, Blue reluctantly admits to himself, it’s because you’re somehow cute _and_ scary, like wolves are. But what kind of cowardly soulmate is he, admitting that he’s a teensy-tiny bit scared of you?

Anyway, the shirt will be perfect for you. Plus, it has space stuff on it. Who doesn’t like space? He’s confident you’ll like it, but he gathers a selection of clothing just in case. He piles it into your arms and then backs away, waving you into the bedroom. He gestures to himself and then the floor just outside his room. “I Will Wait Out Here, Y/N. You Can Go Ahead And Change In Complete Security Knowing The Chivalrous Sans Is Guarding The Door.”

You take a small step into his bedroom, slowly shutting the door behind you. You make unsure eye contact with him while you do, as if you’re anticipating him to stop you at any moment. He doesn’t, of course, and he nods positively. When the door clicks shut, he spins around and waits. He does his best to not think about how you’re disrobing a few yards away. The sound of fabric ripping can be heard through the wood and he gets worried about what’s happening. He knocks nervously.

You answer, emerging in the wolf shirt and a pair of sweatpants. The tee shirt hangs off you loosely and the sweats end on the arch of your feet. _So Adorable!_ Blue mentally squees. “That Looks Great, Y/N!” he can’t resist pulling you into a hug and spinning your small body around. You’re bewildered and dizzy. He lets you down and notices the remnants of your prior garment littering the floor. It looks as if your dress had been eaten up by Stretch’s trash tornado. 

You notice his gaze and give a disdainful kick to the scrap closest to you. You’d torn the gown apart with your own hands as soon as you got the chance. It makes Blue oddly unnerved. What had happened to make you hate it so much? Had the humans forced you to wear it? He avoids thinking about it, and the mess you made, by leading you straight to the kitchen where he can make good on his agreement to get you drinks. But first, he’ll need to pay a visit to his super-secret stash.

He finds Stretch slumped over the table, which has been set with three glasses and nothing else. “I Am Going To Retrieve Our Dinner, And When I Come Back The Table Will Be Fully Set!”

Papyrus’ sockets open languidly. He perks up when he sees you, protesting, “thought we were having cider.”

“Not _Just_ Cider. What Kind Of Hosts Would She Think Us If We Offered Only That? We Will Be Having An Assortment Of Snacks From My Stash! Our Soulmate Deserves That Much, And More!”

“better be quick, bro. she’s nothing but bones.”

“Papy!” Blue groans. “That Isn’t Funny. The Humans Had Her Captured And WHO KNOWS What They Fed Her! How Long Do You Think It’s Been Since She’s Had Monster Food?!”

Stretch stops moving his eyelights for a while, a sign he’s searching your souls’ status. “her magic’s real low.” He adds unhelpfully, mounting pressure on his brother to provide an impressive, restorative meal and _immediately_. “and something’s wrong with her soul.”

Despite Blue having his soulmate for less than a day, hearing those words triggers pangs of sharp, twisting anxiety. “What Is It? What’s Wrong?”

“it’s pointing down, like a human’s. they must have messed with it.”

“She Speaks Like Them…Is It Possible She Was Raised With Humans? Maybe That’s Why She Isn’t Trapped With The Rest Of The Monsters Here.”

“she’s not from underground, know that much. council’s got cameras all over mt. ebbot. we would’ve seen someone go in or out.”

Blue is remiss that this universe’s barrier remains unbroken. He wants to free the innocent monsters and meet another version of his friends, but the council can never agree about how to go about it! Red thinks they should drop down as many humans as possible. At least one of them should break the barrier. If not…Axe says a quick death is better than being trapped indefinitely. Classic Sans refuses to let any humans fall unless they’ve been thoroughly vetted. Yet, he’s got no better ideas than the rest of them about how to choose the right human for the difficult task of surviving the underground long enough to face Toriel. Or Asgore. Or someone else entirely. They can’t be sure, there’s a lot of unknowns in this universe.

There’s a lot of unknowns with _you_. Blue worries what your being here means. Maybe the barrier broke before they got here. Have they not seen any other native monsters because most of them had been killed when they’d surfaced? He frets his teeth over a phalange. He hopes not, but it would explain a few things. Earlier, you’d looked so sorrowful. Like you’d been through a lot. Feeling your haunted sadness lift and brighten when he’d healed you was indescribably magnificent, but he can’t heal you all the time. Some things you have to heal yourself. Sans resolves to do the best he can to support you, starting with securing you some sustenance!

“Stay Here With Y/N. Try Not To Scare Her Anymore, Please.” Papyrus huffs and folds his arms, groaning as Blue pulls him in for a noogie. Sans hopes the gesture shows you how nonthreatening his baby brother is. Harmless, really. Papyrus should use this chance to apologize and then they can all eat dinner together peacefully, as a family and without fear!

* * *

You try to follow Sands, but he shoos you back down and sits you in a dining chair across from Justice. “What are you doing?” you ask irritably. You, predictably, receive no response as Sands sprints up the stairwell. You feel an increasingly familiar frustration with the language barrier between you. Why has he left you alone with the brute? And after Justice had offered you his favor, which you’d declined?

It’s uncomfortable on multiple levels. However, you’d seen how closely the two skeletons interact. Your seraph clearly loves the lanky louse, for reasons you can’t grasp. Since he has your soulmate’s affection, you suppose you owe him some sort of civility. You stew on this for a minute as you take in your surroundings. This room has a ‘sink’, much like the bathrooms in Aysgarth’s temple grounds, but no ceramic loo or tub. By the plates visible in the paned cabinets you’d say this is the cooking area. It’s bedecked with boxes of all sizes; made of metal and materials you don’t recognize. You distinguish them by what’s inside. One has racks, another has a transparent plate, and the smallest has four book-sized divets on top.

Once you’re tired of futilely wondering what they’re all for, your attention reluctantly wanders back to the skeleton across from you. He’s sleeping, you note with a mixture of relief and perplexity. His sockets are shut and it’s strange to see a skull in such a state. You dwell on the behavior you’ve observed from him today. He’d been as diffident and flighty as a fawn in Sands’ presence. You hadn’t expected him to offer his coat to you in an extension of courtship, especially not right in front of your soulmate. A bold and unbelievably _daft_ move. You’re surprised Sands wasn’t more upset by it. Though, he had rushed to extend his own favor, giving you clothes that allowed you to be blessedly rid of your thrice-damned dress. You resolve to reciprocate at the next opportunity.

Your resolve is weakened by recalling the moment before he’d offered his courtship clothes. He’d brought you to his bedroom. You didn’t want to be scared of him, but you were. He’s your soulmate, a _seraph_ for stars’ sake, yet you can’t trust him completely. You don’t know him. And then he demonstrates exactly _how much_ you don’t know him by gifting you trousers, of all things. You’d expected these ‘gods’ to act in accordance with their subjects in expecting you to dress like a noblewoman. Yet, Sands seemed to fully endorse your wearing of the extremely comfortable pants. They are nearly as soft as downy feathers. They have a stretch to them that allows them to hug your hipbones and stay up easily. They’re a marvelous favor from a truly miraculous mate.

You rest your chin in your carpals, pondering how you could match the quality of his gift. Sands seems to like wolves. They’re painted with incredible realism on your upper garment, along with the moon and stars. It’s awe-inspiring to possess such a beautiful painting on a flexible and sturdy cotton canvas. Perhaps you could get him a wolf pelt. It’d make good lining for his armor in winter.

You’re in no mood to plan your gift, though, not while he’s left you with this slumbering scamp of a skeleton not four feet away. He appears innocuous enough while he’s sleeping, but you remember that disappearing act he pulled. He _teleported_. That’s space manipulation and it’s _not supposed to exist_. Witnessing that use of arcane power sobered you with the chilling comprehension that you have no clue what this ‘Justice’ is capable of.

Sands doesn’t call him Justice. Examining them interact, you could’ve sworn you heard your soulmate address him as ‘Puppy’ on multiple occasions. You don’t think the name is particularly apt, although he did look like a kicked dog when Sands scolded him. You can’t resist testing out the title. “Puppy?” you voice, experimentation immediately rewarded as the tall skeleton startles, shooting his skull up off the table.

He mutters a stunned statement and you repeat yourself, wanting confirmation, “Puppy?” you point to him, “Is that your name?”

He nods overenthusiastically and you wonder if he’s going to shake his skull right off his spine. You turn your phalanges towards yourself, saying, “I’m Y/N. You’re still strange, but no longer a stranger.”

Reluctantly, you reach your hands across the table to shake his in recognition of your acquaintanceship. One hand is curled into a fist, the other is lifted in a flat palm. He should echo your posture. Each of your fists should be met with the opposite person’s hand which closes around it, acknowledging your ability to harm each other and symbolically neutralizing it with the open hand of diplomacy.

This is not what happens. Puppy observes your presented hands warily and with several seconds’ hesitation he slaps your flat palm and knocks his fist into your own. A single mad laugh bursts from your teeth in astonishment. What in the stars was that? He can’t shake hands properly? It’s starting to dawn on you that this sentient skeleton is rather socially incompetent. You’re not sure if it’s the situation tickling you or the moths flittering about in your ribs, but you snicker all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have gained ITEM "Three Wolf Moon Shirt". +20 Coolness. -5 Spookiness. Special Ability: Bay At The Moon--Instantly Impregnate Any Skeleton Within Five Meters With Your Jaw-Dropping Virility.  
> jk, but you gotta respect the wolf shirt. Reader pulls it off.
> 
> Sands: I have never done anything wrong, ever, in my life.  
> Reader: I know this, and I love you.  
> Puppy: *breathes*  
> Reader: You foole. You absolute buffoon. 
> 
> sooo what's with the monsters of this AU, huh? Hmmmm 🤔  
> Author has plans. Devious plans. Any guesses? >:)


	6. Chapter 6

Sands descends the steps with an armful of colorful containers. He beams at Puppy and you, whose laughter has left her at ease. There’s an exchange of words between the two males. With the frequent mentions of your name and the way they keep throwing glances in your direction, it’s blatant they’re talking about you. It doesn’t bother you as much as it might’ve. The tenor of the conversation is familial and friendly. Despite neither comprehending nor contributing to it, you feel included.

There’s a bubbling of anticipation in your soul as Sands’ spoils are strewn onto the tabletop. There are myriad curiosities. You reach for the most mystifying one and hold its glasslike yet flexible container to inspect it. If it weren’t for its stripes of rose, blue, and yellow you’d have compared it to yogurt. Yogurt that sparkles like the stars. It’s magnificent. It looks like something gods would eat; you admit hesitantly.

It’s not made of real stars, is it? You shiver. Eating stars would be terribly sacrilegious. Everyone who isn’t claimed by demons becomes one with nature when they die. The strongest, surest souls become the stars. It’s the greatest of honors. They reside eternally in the overworld, blessing those below with their ethereal light. You’re sure that’s where your friends ended up. You smile each night you can see them. It’s unfortunate they couldn’t tell you about the overworld when you’d resurrected them, but no one ever remembers what happens after their death. Not even you. The space in your mind between when you’d died and woken up is blank of all memory.

That’s alright. You don’t need your memory to know what Her Holiness teaches about the afterlife is true. You can sense it. Souls whose shells have split become spirits that circulate on the wind, whispering goodbyes to their loved one before unifying with nature. Spirits whose wills reject nature, often the case in demon-corrupted individuals, cannot become one. They are too rebellious to unify and their incorporeal wills linger unnaturally. These angry spirits love giving you trouble. Your demonic magic must be magnetic to them. In life and undeath you’ve been haunted by these unmistakable presences. They never harm you. On moonless nights they pull tricks on your eyes and ears. On windy days they’ll tug at your hair and robes. You imagine they’re trying to imitate nature, but you _know_ when their mischief is in the air. You can only just detect them in the peripheries of your soul-senses. You’ve accepted that you won’t escape them until your time is up, and you aren’t in any hurry to get to your final death.

That means you won’t be rushing to partake of these peculiar provisions. You’d scavenged enough to know that flamboyant colors are dangerous. Your undeath means you’re immune to food poisoning, alcohol poisoning, and _poison_ poisoning, but you’d rather not test your luck. You don’t fully trust that what’s before you is even edible. It’s shimmering and buzzing with energy. You offer the starry substance to the other skeletons, gesturing between them, and then tapping your ribcage. The message is clear-cut— _You first_.

Sand accepts the starfait from you. The clear container peels open with a pop. He retrieves a handful of silverware from a drawer and distributes them to you and Puppy before diving in. You watch in rapt attention as he raises the spoonful to his mouth. You’re eager to see how similar he is to you. Does he have a tongue? Does he like drinking vinegar? Does sustenance disappear in his skull when he consumes it?

This is what you’ve craved your entire un-life—the opportunity to eat communally with people who wouldn’t scoot away, stare, or survey you with suspicion. Now that the chance has arrived you realize you’re being a mite hypocritical as you intently watch Sands eat.

The bite of starry food is deposited onto a bright blue tongue. Oh, good. He has a tongue, too. That will surely come in handy later in your courtship. You surprise yourself with the thought. Your body might not have sexual capabilities, but the craving for affection is engrained in the psyche, not the physique, after all. Kissing won’t be until later, though. Not until he accepts your favor. This is your soulmate and that means you’re going to do this the right way.

Sands swallows the bite with a contented smile and passes the container to Puppy. He forgoes a spoon and slurps some from the side. You notice the lengthy orange tongue swipe over the front of his teeth as he cleans himself after the slapdash swig. How fitting, that the bedswerving skelpie-limmer would have such a lecherously long tongue.

Distracted, it takes you a moment before you notice the starfait has been offered back to you. Bashfully, you accept it, bringing it back before your chest. It’s your turn. You clutch the spoon tightly as you search the other skeletons. They show no signs of harm and it sounded like it’d been delicious…the substance seems safe…

You dip the spoon into it, collecting a meager glob and lifting it to your mouth. It’s insanely sweet. Like straight sugar, but tingly and fruity. “Mm!” you exclaim in surprise. It’s scrumptious. The miniscule bite dissolves immediately into your magic and—Oh stars. Did your mana pool just increase?

There’s no way…you take another bite, a proper full-sized one this time, and it confirms your suspicions. In that single mouthful you’d recovered enough energy to make up for all you’d expended that day.

This is monumental. The empire has been searching for the means to supplement magic levels for _ages_. In life, you’d been a part in one of the many experiments to find a substance that restores mana. It would have been indescribably valuable, amplifying the utility of every mage under the empire’s banner, but it was no simple task. There was much trial and error. New possibilities are discovered with each conquered territory, but that entails testing dozens and dozens of plants for potential, a fair number of them toxic. The mage participants had been promised personal healing from Her Holiness Herself should they fall ill. Many, including you, jumped at the possibility of putting yourself in harm’s way if it meant you’d get the blessing of the overworld’s vessel.

The fungi you’d tried hadn’t been poisonous. It hadn’t been magical, either, though it had certainly felt magical. You’d had vivid visions of living, breathing colors. You felt oneness with nature in a way you’d only thought possible through physical death. Yet, several hours later as the effects wore off, your mana had tested the same as when you’d started.

_This_ , though—this absurdly sweet yoghurt dish that would’ve given your living body a stomachache—it’s left you positively pulsing with magic. You lift the container to your teeth and down the rest of its contents. You swirl your tongue inside, straining to collect every bit you can. Once it’s been licked clean, you set it on the table with a click and meet the wide eyes of two stunned skeletons.

Unbeknownst to you, your eyelights have dilated drastically and your snow-white soul sings as it absorbs the magic it’d been starving for. You feel like you can do anything. With this kind of mana, your will is bursting, beyond big enough to fill dozens of complex corpses. Plants and insects are easy to resurrect in large numbers. Humans, on the other hand, and horses…

You shoot up out of your chair, spine straight. “Y/N?” Sands queries concernedly. You don’t answer right away. You’re wholly absorbed with the possibilities that have sprung from this discovery. You should report this. You and your soulmate would be hailed as heroes if you helped Ebott Empire with something this significant. Technically, you don’t have anyone to report to, not anymore. That paltry detail isn’t enough to stop you. However, it does decelerate that line of thinking.

You’d much rather test out this massive pool of mana before you go tracking down a Lord Mage for a report. Your friends! You could restore their will for hours with this. Possibly even _days_! Yet…you shouldn’t tear their spirits from the sky any more than you have. They’re at peace and don’t need your demonic necromancy interfering with that.

Dusty, however…you weren’t taught anything about horses’ afterlife, and you wouldn’t feel too guilty about ripping her will away from whatever speck of nature equines unify with. A worm-ridden pasture or the like. You step solidly away from the table, saying, “I’m fine, Sands. Leagues beyond fine. I am ready to undertake Dusty’s recovery from Aysgarth.”

The thought of confronting the city’s three heads doesn’t chill you as it had earlier. The surplus of energy supplies you with confidence and you would dare any of them to try going against you again. They had caught you by surprise, but this time, you’ll be prepared. You think of all the ways you could make Beckett regret his betrayal. Moths stir aggressively in your ribcage as you imagine the undead insects swarming down his throat, biting and suffocating him from the inside.

Sands rises from his seat to stand beside you and places a palm over your shoulder. There’s a faint frown on his skull as he wonders if they’d done something wrong. His concern grounds you and forces you to confront the likelihood that your seraph soulmate would not appreciate your cruel killing of the man he’d saved as a child. For him, you could resolve matters peacefully. Perhaps.

You snatch his hand from your collarbone and drag him by it, leading him down the stairs. He’s perplexedly posing incomprehensible questions but allows himself to be pulled along to the base of the tower. Puppy trails after you and your soulmate several yards behind. You pass through the threshold where you’d first seen Sands.

The cold night air has you dropping his hand to hug yourself. It had been temperate within the tower’s walls and you’d forgotten to brace yourself against autumn’s brisk breezes. Clouds cover the full moon and nocturnal beasts call to each other from their secret spaces.

It’s dark, but your eyes adequately absorb the quaint garden that’s been groomed around the foundations of the fort. There are fields’ worth of flowers growing in neatly arranged boxes. Their petals’ pigment is lost to the lack of light. Some of the plants are foreign and unrecognizable to you. Their unfamiliarity is dwarfed by the abrupt awareness that the tower is not set strategically atop a hill or amongst civilization. It’s _imprisoned_.

The home of your soulmate is caged by towering walls that surpass your height fivefold. No flowers grow under their significant shadows. They are solid slabs of stone that sit perfectly perpendicular to the earth. There are no grooves in its surface where blocks were placed, and mortar filled in; they are smooth and uninterrupted as if they’d been carved whole from a mountain. You gape at the imposing walls until you see them turn to tunnel further into the dark. You’d absorbed Beckett’s teachings enough to know where you’d ended up.

You’re deep within the labyrinth of lies.

_“Everything in the gods’ labyrinth is lying to you. Doubt all that you see and maybe, possibly, you’ll get out alive,”_ the temple scholar had warned you, amending himself after you’d raised a bony brow at his choice of words. _“Get out undead, rather. But even if you can avoid the steel traps and spiked pits, there’s no navigating the maze. Only the gods can comprehend its patterns.”_

You stare into the corridor that forks as your eyes fail and perceive blackness in the murkiness of distance and dark. Sands not so subtly tries to tug you towards the tower. You turn to him. His cautioning cerulean eyes are sharply colorful amid the greyscale garden. 

You are undeterred by the challenge before you. Only the gods can navigate the labyrinth? It’s a good thing you’ve got a ‘god’ by your side, then. You’ll need Sands’ help. You think he’ll be willing to assist you, but firstly you’ll need to get him to understand how to. You dwell on how to get across your horse rescue mission plan before accepting that signals and hand waves won’t cut it, this time. You’ll need to map it out and hope that he can decipher your shoddy artistry. You flatten your palm to resemble parchment and scribble on it with an invisible quill.

Sands’ skull bobs in understanding. This time when he nudges you back to the tower, you let him tow you inside. He’s clearly relieved at getting you out of the cold and away from the daunting maze that is the sole escape from their trapped tower. You travel up several flights of steps until you’re guided to a room that’s illuminated with the mere flick of a switch.

It’s overflowing with books. Each one of its walls is shelved up to the ceiling and they are full with more literature than you’d seen in your entire life or undeath. There had been copies of The Songs at dawn ceremonies and week’s end worships, sure. Training tomes were given to each initiate and the Academy had numerous spell books on hand. Beckett’s study in the temple had held the largest collection you’d seen, and that was hardly _a tenth_ of what’s here.

Your eyes wander in wonderment as Sands collects a pen and paper from a nearby desk. You accept the parchment and consider taking the small, sticklike metal object that he offers with it. It’s not a quill and it won’t write until he clicks in a button at its end. Now its exposed nub is wet with ink from within. Odd that a craftsman would go to such ends to manufacture a complex mechanism within the miniscule frame, just to replace the minor inconvenience of dipping its tip in an inkwell.

Nonetheless, you utilize it, smoothing the parchment over the desk’s surface to draw a rough rendition of Dusty. Her ribs are uneven and her proportions dubious. Once you finish, you gaze longingly at her ambiguous image. She’d gone her whole life without seeing you, but you’d had her as a near constant presence since you’d enlisted her into your company. It’d been born of practicality. Why waste gold on a living horse when the free alternative—finding a dead one and cleaning its bones to a serviceable state—works just as well? The process of picking decomposing flesh from Dusty’s intricate spine had been arduous and, since you could smell at the time, putrid. Yet, you remember it fondly. It was a labor of love. A long-lasting love that had inspired your friends to bury her bones with you after your untimely demise.

You harbor doubts about the trueness of your bond to her. Her soul-shell was filled with your will and you’d essentially been interacting with an externalization of yourself, in the hollow puppet of her corpse. How could she reciprocate? She doesn’t have a mind of her own to hold thoughts or opinions of you. Even if she could develop one from the influx of your magic, it’s likely wiped away whenever you’d de-resurrect her. Yet, you stubbornly hold onto the hope that an abstract part of her was mindful of the adventures you’d shared. It’s possible that her bones remember. Yours do.

Sands swipes a bony thumb across your cheekbone where a magical tear had threatened to spill. The gentle gesture reminds you of your purpose in this undertaking. Not to mope, but to help Sands understand you. You add to your image, inking in the ones who took Dusty from you. Circles with faces for each of Aysgarth’s heads. They orbit her with ornery, evil eyebrows. You scrutinize Sands’ expression for comprehension before flipping the paper over and copying the basics of the local map you’d seen, then circling Aysgarth. For extra emphasis, you draw a mini Dusty with an arrow pointing to the temple where her bones were unwillingly abandoned. You don’t let yourself feel bad about it. You’ll have her back soon.

* * *

Stretch inspects your visual explanation from a respectable distance. His best guess is that you want to return to the city where some humans had killed your dog. Hard to tell what the species of your subject was, with its haphazardly rendered bony body. Couldn’t you have just drawn X’s over its eyes? Maybe that isn’t a thing in this universe, like high fives. His cheekbones heat with happy embarrassment over the memory of you laughing at his attempt to reciprocate your secret handshake. Your laugh is lovely, but he imagines it’ll sound better when it’s not caused by his incompetency.

Sure, he knows that the handshake and the other odd things you do aren’t strictly ‘secret’. It’s his sorry retention of this world’s cultural quirks. They slide right out of his skull when faced with you. He’s seen their town’s humans go about their daily life so much that he’d expected some of it to stick. Not the case. He hasn’t acclimatized himself to the local way of life here. He had no desire to, with how backwards their society seems to be. _Had_. Had, no desire to. Now, he wants to pick up all the missing pieces of your puzzling self, starting with watching his camera footage from the past week. He needs to understand what happened to you and your dog to have you end up bound to the altar where he’d found you.

“They Stole Her Sheep Skeleton!” Blue bemoans, sympathetically sorrowful for your plight. He misinterprets Stretch’s skepticism at the drawing’s species for reluctance. “Papy, We _Have_ To Help Her Get It Back!”

“i know. don’t think it’s a sheep, though. look at its teeth.” The scribbled-in skull is stuffed with sharpened teeth.

“No, Look At Its Little Tail! What Else Would It Be?” Its tail is small, relative to body size, and humans commonly cut both canines’ and bovidaes’ tails short with docking.

“a dog. y/n’s a dog person, don’t you think?”

Blue doesn’t immediately argue his side, instead, solemnly watching you stare at the misshapen skeletal shape on the page. “What If…What If It’s Another Monster? Her Friend? And While We’re Bickering About What Exactly It _Is_ While She’s Worrying About Their Welfare?”

“we’ll know soon enough,” Stretch assures, “i’ll check the security tapes and then—"

“What Do You Mean, _You’ll Check_?” Blue buts in sternly, “Shouldn’t You Have Already Seen The Footage? I Thought That The Humans Had Captured And Injured Y/N Off-Camera, But What Your Saying Is…You Haven’t Been Doing Your Job?”

There are dozens of cameras to cover and so much of it is same old stuff. People walking. People talking, in gibberish he doesn’t understand. And that’s when there’s humans on screen, not just livestock and wildlife activating the motion sensors and forcing unnecessary footage of animals ambling around into his workload. Keeping tabs on everyone 24/7—it’s beyond boring. Even if he viewed it at five times speed, watching it all would take hours out of his day, _every_ day. So…no, Stretch hasn’t been doing his job. Not lately, not very well. Still, he doesn’t appreciate the accusation in Blue’s tone. “bro, back off. you’re acting like this is all my fault.”

“It IS All Your Fault! If You’d Been Doing Your Job, We Could’ve Rescued Y/N From The Humans _Before_ They Hurt Her! You Make Sure They’re Being Safe With The Security Feed, I Help Them Heal Each Other At The Hospital, And We Both Defend The City. That Was The Arrangement That _You_ _Committed To_. It’s A Simple Sentry Job And Since You Slacked Off, Y/N And Possibly Another Monster Were Harmed. Because Of _Your_ Laziness!” Stretch shrinks back from the stinging criticism and his brother’s righteous indignation. His skull contorts with the wounding words, his own shame mounting at them. Blue notices Papyrus’ distress and your discomfort at the bout of anger and stops, taking a deep breath. “I’m Sorry. I Didn’t Mean That. She’s Sad, Angry And…It’s Affecting Me, A Lot. It’s Not All Your Fault. But That Doesn’t Mean We Won’t Have A Talk About Responsibility Later.”

“…yeah.” Stretch answers, his voice short with choked off emotions, still sore from the beating they’d taken. 

“In The Meantime, We Need To Prepare For The Task Ahead.” Blue switches to his business-y big brother voice as he organically takes the lead, “You Are Going To Pick Up The Slack And Find Out What Happened With The Humans, Y/N And I Are Going To Get A Good Night’s Rest Before We Set Out, At Sunrise.”

Stretch gets out of the chair he’d been slumped in and notices you’d strayed from the desk during their disagreement, patrolling the shelves and admiring their library. “she doesn’t look like she wants to go to sleep anytime soon.” The monster food must have given you a kick. It’s clear in the way you carry yourself that you’re awake, alert, and ready to run a mile at the sound of a shot. As opposed to him, who’s emotionally exhausted and even more tired thinking about what he has to do before getting any rest.

“Let Me Worry About That,” Blue instructs. “But Would You Bring Us Some Pillows And Blankets Before You Go? I Don’t Think It’d Be Wise To Bring Her To A Bedroom Again…”

“yeah,” he repeats, less strained this time. He shortcuts to his closet where he collects clean comforters and several spare throw pillows. When he comes back, he deposits the stack straight into Sans’ arms, anxious you’d reject them if they came directly from him.

“Thank You, Papy.” Blue accepts the blankets with a thankful nod. As Stretch leaves, his brother catches his arm and adds, “Try To Get Some Sleep After You Finish. I’ll Wake You Up Once We’re Ready To Leave.”

He takes one last look at you through the doorway. Your skull is tilted at him curiously. He acknowledges you with an awkward wave and disappears through the void to end up curled over in his desk chair, sighing into his hands. He takes a minute to swim in self-pity before booting his computer and confronting his screw-up.

Camera footage from the past twelve months was automatically uploaded and stored on their system, modeled after the undernet. Stretch starts from the beginning. He pulls up the video feed from a couple hours ago, when he’d taken you from the temple. There’s a bitter taste on his tongue watching himself from a distance, leering over you while you’re trapped and terrified. He knows this part. He doesn’t need to revisit his foible-d first impression further. He skips back to before he arrived, where you’d been bound for hours beforehand. It’s especially uncomfortable watching once you’re unconscious.

He gets concerned for the privacy of their servers. Cybersecurity isn’t his strength and some of his alternates have managed to hack into his camera footage in the past. Papyrus feels surge of protectiveness over the video with you in it. How would Rus react if he got his grimy hands on a recording of you, bound with your arms over head on a moonlit altar, skull sleepily slumped to the side? Stretch has firsthand knowledge how this footage could be seen in less innocent ways. He password protects the recordings from today’s date and proceeds to rewind until he catches the humans lowering you into the manacles.

Disappointment gut-punches him as he recognizes the humans he’d approved for leadership positions as the ones forcing you into the chains against your will.

Gregor, the broad-bodied and bushy eyebrowed man who’d had remarkably low LV for a militiaman and clearly commanded the respect of his comrades.

Isolda, the ambitious and bright-minded woman who’d taken the town leaps and bounds ahead with her brilliant reverse-engineering of the blueprints and scientific figures he’d left with her.

And Beckett, the bookish, black-haired, barely-over boyhood prodigy who’d taken a lifelong interest in studying the skeleton monsters’ mysteries after Sans had saved him. 

When they’d been voted in for governance, he’d watched through weeks of their life over the last half decade, looking for any sign of corruption or ill will. There had been none then, nor when he Judged them. Yet, here they are, surrounding you, stringing you up for sacrifice. What had inspired these previously upright humans to stoop to this? Surely not him?

Stretch recalls what these heads have in common. They are devout and eager to please their 'gods'. He’d given them no indication that capturing a monster and dressing her up for them would win humans his favor, but he doubts they’d taken that leap of logic on their own. One of them must have been the human Blue’d shown his ‘soulmark’. It’s thrilling and terrifying how the most inconsequential of their choices can influence those who treat it with such weight as an act of god.

It’s not Blue’s fault. There’s no way he could’ve know it would lead to this. Stars, it’s possible that his actions had nothing to with it, and their society is so sideways that they would’ve sacrificed the first female skeleton they’d seen regardless of whether her name was the one on their gods’ wrist. It wouldn’t surprise Stretch. Humanity's treatment of each other is barbaric in this universe. It’s gotten better with their help, but they haven’t erased the tendencies for the human species to screw itself over with selfish and destructive instincts.

He witnesses Gregor restraining you while Isolda empties a magic suppressing potion down your socket. His hand unconsciously lifts to his left eye in an empathetic echo of your pain. That must have stung terribly. He resents Isolda for what he once respected—her ability to empirically detach herself from her subject of study, and, apparently, her subordinate skeleton sacrifice.

The video shows you entering the temple willingly. The days’ worth of recordings prior to the anniversary festival had been spent with you peacefully in the heads’ company. They’d taught and talked with you, offering you a place in their city since you’d rode in on a skeletal horse. _oh, that’s what it was_. A horse. A dead, boney steed that you can control. It’s confusing, but that helps him know what they’ll be searching for tomorrow.

Having completed his task, he shuts the computer down, lingering to stare at his reflection in the black mirror of his monitor. If he hadn’t slacked off…if he’d spotted you on the cameras earlier…he’d have introduced himself when you were on even footing. Before those humans had hurt you and when you’d been fully free and conscious. He imagines how much better your meeting would’ve gone if he hadn’t been caught off guard by his own shirked responsibilities coming back to bite him.

He falls into bed. With what little energy he has, he contemplates sentences for the humans who’d betrayed you. It’d been months since he’s dealt with anything criminal above petty theft. Community service wouldn’t cut it in this case. He’ll have to sleep on it, but despite his exhaustion, sleep can’t take him. His mind is roused with a burning question—how justice can be done when the judge is guilty?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bedswerving skelpie-limmer. Because calling Stretch a slutty, naughty boy is too basic. Traditionally, a bedswerver refers to an adulterer but I figure it can be used to call someone a manwhore. Old timey insults are just…the BEST.  
> Skeader: *slorping up that good starfait shit, swirling that skele-tongue all up in that plastic cup*  
> Puppy: …god i wish that were me  
> Pre-Skeader Reader, tripping balls on magic mushrooms: Guys I did it! I found a magic thing!!  
> Everyone else, seeing dilated af pupils and Reader zonked out of her mind: Doubt.


	7. Chapter 7

You view the space Puppy had disappeared from. He’d gotten quite the scolding from Sands and faintly, you feel bad for him. You wouldn’t have wanted to be on the other side of your soulmate’s stern talking-to. It’s unclear what the dispute was about, exactly, but you intuitively decide Puppy deserved it.

Sands sets the bedding in his arms down and ushers you back to the desk, where he illustrates his plan. He draws several snoozing skulls and a sunrise, then dotting in the group’s passage to Aysgarth. You nod your endorsement. It makes sense to sleep beforehand, yet your soul is still swollen with willful longing. You shelter Sands’ hand with your own and try to communicate: _I’m not tired._

He pouts at you, puffing out his cheekbones petulantly. You ponder how that’s possible while he pulls you along to the bookcase. He scans the shelves high and low, searching for something specific. You release his hand to help him hunt it down, despite not having the slightest idea what “it” could be. You muse on the hundreds of possibilities stuffed into the shelves.

The books here are unique. They’re bound in colorful panels of what looks to be polished and stained wood, if you were to hazard a guess. With their covers’ clear sheen and lifelike paintings…. there’s one that stands out. It’s in your language. You stand on the tips of your hallux to seize the book’s leatherbound spine. Perusing its introduction, you discover it’s a religious text.

It’s about “The Truth”. You’re unenthusiastic about the term Beckett had used to describe the city’s faith but you have nothing to use in its stead. Flipping through the aged pages you discover illustrations of each skeleton ‘god’ followed by descriptions of them and stories since their Arrival. It makes sense now, why Sands would own a book in a language he can’t speak. It’s about him. At least a chapter of it, is.

You skim the section on Mercy. You don’t learn anything new of your soulmate, but you do find his portrait. The portrayal is accurately endearing, and you smile before flipping the page. A detailed depiction of Destruction is revealed. The background of the ink illustration is an enormous full moon. Its beautiful glow is fragmented by strings of light. The cords are sourced from the sockets of a skeleton with pitch-black bones. The tear-like formations contradict his manic smile. His scarlet-filled sockets seem to be locked on to you. The skeleton isn’t blurry, but he’s…wrong. Off-kilter. It’s as if he’s not someone you’re supposed to be seeing. You swiftly shut the book. Its cover snaps closed and sends a woosh of air at your skull. You shudder, startling when Sands steals your attention.

His hand on your shoulder pulsates with enthusiasm. The apparent cause of it—a pastel-paletted picture book with pink rabbits on the cover. It looks like something reserved for schoolchildren. Why had he scavenged for this, of all things? Your hope is that he intends to use the straightforward, entry-level text to introduce you to the ways of his language.

You bring The Truth tome with you as Sands spreads out the blankets on the floor for you both to rest on. He removes his plated armor and props himself up on pillows, refusing to read until you relax. Impatient to learn, you acquiesce, laying down. You allow him to fluff your pillow and tuck you in. You’re warm and cozy but remain staunchly alert. You make sure he knows this, peevishly peeking out at him from underneath the covers.

Sands is undeterred by your playful petulance. He chatters happily and at last, lifts the book above his lap to present it to you. His phalange follows the symbols on its cover as he reads the title. A few pages in, you realize it’s a fable of some sort. The story centers on rabbits which are uncharacteristically clever, socializing like humans and hiding in places you wouldn’t anticipate. Your soulmate brings life to the characters as he speaks for them. A part of you guessed that he plans to make you sleepy with this bedroom story, but with the way he animatedly exaggerates his facial expressions to match the rabbits’ swaying moods and the dramatic fluctuation of his voice, you’re more awake than ever. You listen intently to glean the moral of this fable.

Halfway through you start recognizing oft repeated words. You sit upright and halt Sands’ reading with a distal directed at one of the rabbits. “Fluhfee,” you identify it in his language, looking expectantly at Sands to see if you’d guessed right.

His grin stretches wide, but he shakes his skull. You frown for a moment. It’d been a coin-toss which of the two words you’d heard most often in reference to the prey animal was the correct one. If it’s not the first, it must be, “Buhnee?” you presume. 

Sands cheers, bobbing his skull and lifting his fist skyward. He hugs you, vibrating with pride, and ends the hug by lowering you back into the blankets. He coaxes them snugly back around you. Once you’re begrudgingly settled in again, he returns to the page he’d left on. He points to a different rabbit and confirms the vernacular, then gestures to the entire group of rabbits and alters the word slightly.

“Buhn…Bun-knees?” you parrot, correcting your pronunciation part of the way through. He nods again and you’re flushed with satisfaction. You joyfully regard the pink rabbits. Even if it’s only about one animal, you and Sands can communicate now!

He finishes the book, and noting that you’re still awake, rises from the pillows to retrieve another. You stop him by snagging his ankle bones, conveying: _It’s my turn_. You suspect Sands will be able to speak your language faster than you can learn his. He’s a seraph. You hadn’t imagined that a seraph would ever need to be a student in anything, but…you suppose there’s always more to learn. You assume Sands will be a smart one. Sharp-witted, along with sweet-souled and strong-spined.

That strong spine of his threatens to give you trouble as Sands stubbornly resists taking your spot in the blanket bed. It takes several insistent tugs to his legbones before he trades places with you, laying prone while you sit against a stack of pillows. You lick the end of a phalange and use it to turn to the chapter on, “Survival. The one whose iron will surmounts all suffering to ascend into pure endurance and immortality,” you speak slowly, taking care to enunciate each word. “His strength is in Spirit, with whom he shares his struggles.”

As with each god, there’s a picture of him beside his introduction. His single eyelight is a bloody red and there’s a jagged hole in his skull. That must’ve been the blow that killed him. A brutal way to go, having your skull shattered like that. But, like you, he’d persisted and carried on. You pause and appraise Sands, who is waiting keenly to hear your voice again. What had killed your soulmate? Most deaths won’t leave a mark on the bones. You should know. You were burned at the stake and your bones had barely even brittled. You’d think that having been killed by fire, you’d be afraid of it now. The exact opposite is true. You outlasted your pyre. You’ve surpassed it. Your flesh had painfully melted away, but your bones remained true. Fire and extreme heat can no longer harm you.

Though, you suppose with being undead, _nothing_ should be able to hurt you. That’s not true anymore, not since your magic had begun replenishing and…changing. Changing to what, exactly, you haven’t the slightest surety. Longing for answers, you scan the area, concentrating on Sands’ soul. You’re met with the same baffling anomaly you’d seen with Puppy’s signature. They don’t appear as alive or undead. They are seen only as energy, contained in a skeleton-shaped vessel. Do you appear that way in others’ soul-scans?

You don’t understand what any of you really are, so you’re unsure what word to teach Sands using Survival’s image. Man, maybe? You decide to keep it as nonspecific as possible. “Skeleton,” you say, circling Survival’s form on the page with a phalange.

“Scellington?” Sands echoes you incorrectly and you snicker a bit at his expense.

“Skel-eh-ton. Skeleton.” you point at yourself this time, making sure it’s clear you’re not speaking of Survival specifically. You notice he has a heard time with the hard ‘k’ sound, but after a few tries he gets it right. You praise him, patting his head, and continue to read aloud.

The passage intrigues you. You’re distracted from sharing new words with Sands as you absorb the history of Holmsfirth. Survival and Spirit had been the second pair of gods to appear. They’d lived in the woods of Gardener’s Glen before joining with the settlement further West, which they’d never left. Beckett’s education on The Absconsion was incomplete as he’d never mentioned that these skeletons chose not to live in the labyrinth. 

The duality of hunger continually resides in Holmsfirth. The coastal settlement was late to join Ebott Empire relative to the other cites in the haunted forest. It was founded by islanders from a country that has since been enveloped by the Empire. There had been scarce contact between it and its neighbors before a Lord Mage had been assigned to civilize the region.

Many years ago, one of that Lord Mage’s successors instigated a great greed-famine. A true famine is a lack of food caused by drought or disease. A greed-famine is caused by nothing but gluttony and an ill-distribution of food. The mage occupation had hoarded the region’s rich resources, consuming much and selling off the rest. The impoverished citizens couldn’t compete. They starved amidst plenty.

Your soul twinges with the injustice of it all, taking a break from the book to inspect Sands. His sockets are drooping. With each of his slow breaths they slide further closed. The chapter’s content is much too disturbing for a bedtime story, but the soothing sound of your voice is enough to put your soulmate to sleep. You smile at his soft snores. They make for pleasant background noise as you press deeper into this bleak tale.

You’re relieved to learn that after The Arrival, the corrupt Lord Mage was no longer able to starve his citizens. The hungry gods deprived him of Survival’s namesake. His last meal had been his own tongue. There was a rather graphic description of how the base of his tongue was corded tightly and allowed to rot and fall out before being fed back to him. 

You idly move your own tongue against the inside of your jaw, reminding yourself that it is whole and undecayed. It is an unusual punishment but not one you disapprove of. The sentence should fit the crime. Allowing the citizens he was supposed to protect to go without while he gluts himself is unnatural, perfectly matched by the unnaturalness of consuming your own flesh.

The chapter ends after explaining Survival’s purging of avarice-ridden mages and Holmsfirth’s modern period of peace and prosperity. _That_ disturbs you. Not the peace, but that peace is even possible without the presence of a mage company. They’re what _keeps_ the peace. The history ends without telling of the Lord Mage’s replacement. The tongue eater is described as being the last and no further explanation is given. Was he not supplanted by a better, more just appointment by the Empire? Or perhaps the hungry skeletons had decided to fill the power vacuum themselves. Regardless, you’re skeptical that a town could go without strong leadership for very long without spelling its own ruin.

You’re still wide awake and since Sands is asleep, you entertain yourself by reading further. The next section concerns the angry gods. “ _Calamity is a force of nature without regard for human life. He razes cities and annihilates their inhabitants, for no reason beside to vent the power of his unquenchable wrath_ ,” you read silently, browbones lowering as you scowl at the book’s choice of words. That demonic skeleton is most certainly not a force of nature. He is outside of nature, acting against it, by eating souls and preventing them from rejoining the natural world. Calamity’s portrait shows his sharp teeth and scarred sockets stoic as he wields a spear of sharpened bone to gore a soldier straight through his eye.

The stories since his arrival are as gruesome as you’d expect and you merely glance over them before moving on to Calamity’s twin. “ _Carnage feeds from humanity’s suffering. Our ire at his cruelty fuels him. It is theatrical, to Carnage. He is amused by watching weakling’s futile attempts to avenge their loved ones, while his ill-tempered rage can level buildings over naught but a bug-bite.”_

Carnage is confidently splayed on a grisly throne of corpses. He looks like a wicked king. A king who’s collared, instead of crowned. “Why is this ‘god’ wearing a hound’s collar?” you wonder aloud with a whisper. It is an eccentric choice to say the least. Possibly a bit mad. You almost wish Beckett were here to explain, but your nonexistent gut twists with revulsion at the memory of his boyish face.

You rub the center of your ribcage, setting those thoughts to the side. You continue to read until the library door gradually creaks open.

Puppy pokes his head in. He’s beaten down and haggard. His back is bent in a defeated slouch. The shadows beneath his sockets are sickly and Plague-like, but his eyelights are as far from greedy as it gets as they timidly peer up at you.

You set The Truth tome to the side and stand defensively. Sands is asleep, Puppy isn’t planning on trying anything, is he? You scrutinize his approach. It is cautious, slowing to crawl as he nears you. Your moths flurry from your ribcage to ready themselves. They flutter in the air around you, a protective fog.

The protection proves unnecessary as Puppy collapses at your feet. He prostrates himself before you, fists curled against the floor. You tilt your skull upwards as you balk. What is he doing? He mumbles what sound to be apologies with a rambling length. He wraps a repentant hand around your ankle, and it hits you with the force of a waterfall. He’s sorry. So, so, _so_ sorry. He doesn’t want to hurt you or see you get hurt, ever.

It is…odd, to be certain of something based off the barest touch. But somehow, you are, and you accept his apology, lowering a hand to lift his skull from the stone floor. He looks so fragile like this. It’s hard to marry this image of him with the one of a troublesome skeleton who can effortlessly manipulate space. His expression is vulnerable as you guide his head up by the bottom of his jaw. “Oh, Puppy…” you sigh, “What’s all this about?”

His height is such that even on his knees, the tip of his head passes your lower ribs. They are uncushioned and can’t be terribly comfortable, yet you instinctually hug his head into your chest as he breaks down, shaking with sobs. Your moths descend to delicately bedeck the crying skeleton. Their proboscises unfurl to lick at his tears where they fall. Your hands holding him against you tenderly stroke the back of his skull and the top half of his spine from over his thin, sleeveless undershirt. 

“There, there…” you attempt to soothe him as his contrition gives way into raw emotional pain. It oozes from him with slimy tendrils of sadness and self-doubt. You give it time to leak out, his long arms rising to hug your waist while he hides his skull, nestling it into the fabric covering your ribcage. You continue your comforting motions up and down his back but turn your attention to Sands. He hasn’t woken. You wonder how he would handle his twin’s sensitive state. You’re rather rusty at helping people with problems that can’t be solved by magic. You know Puppy needs someone right now, but you can’t help feeling that you’re not doing enough. The poor thing’s bones are rattling in distress.

You hug him firmly for a few moments before unwinding his arms from you and lowering him into the blankets besides Sands. Your moths fly out of the way as you drop layer after layer of covers onto him, fitting them to his form snugly as Sands had done for you. A few of your winged minions weren’t fast enough and are trapped under the heavy pile of fabric. They crawl out, a bit worse for wear, when Puppy frees his arm to clutch yours. His skull is shyly flushed with orange on his cheekbones and dripping down his tear-tracks as he nonverbally pleads: _please stay._

You wouldn’t have dared called this skeletal skelpie-limmer innocent, but his doe-eyes, still slowly leaking magic, say otherwise. Your skull softens and you one handedly adjust yourself beside his makeshift bed. The picture book with pink ‘bunees’ lays on the floor next to you. The written word remains undecipherable, but you improvise your own dialogue for the story as you read Puppy to sleep. It doesn’t take long for his sockets to slip shut.

The two guardian gods slumber in the low light of the library. You watch their deep breaths but don’t join them in dreamland. That encounter with Puppy had been emotionally draining, yet hardly left a dent in your energy. You’re ready to keep learning. You’re curious—can you increase your mana pool even further, with that magical food?

It’s already larger than it’s ever been. There’s no telling what the limit is…and the possibilities that lurk in that unknown tempt you with promises of power. You silently step out into the hallway, taking the stairway down to the kitchen. The heap of strange foodstuffs sparkles at you from the darkness. You know it must be rude to eat your soulmate’s supplies without his presence, but he had offered it, hadn’t he?

You take a spherical candy and free it from its shiny, crinkly wrappings. It’s popped into your maw. Mm, delicious. Just as sweet as the starfait, but simpler in flavor. It tingles on your tongue and poofs into energy. Your power grows. You sample the selection of god-tier foods until you’re overwhelmed by the magic inside you. You’re ever so slightly vibrating with it, bones buzzing and becoming heated. You experimentally stroke your radius. It’s warm and responsive under your tentative touch. You caress yourself over your clothes, strong sensation blossoming with every motion. You hug your arms as a sprouting soreness accompanies your bones’ sensitivity.

Groaning, you remove yourself from the kitchen and rejoin the sleeping skeletons in the library where with any luck you can get some relief and distraction from this feverish feeling. You occupy yourself with perusing the bizarre books, scanning their pages for pictures, and piecing together their subjects. There are many on natural science. Those are often accompanied with figures you don’t understand. Almost runic, with the way their lines are arranged in mysterious patterns and scattered with points and symbols. You absentmindedly stroke your sternum as you survey an outline of human anatomy. It’s more detailed than any version you’ve seen. What interests you is the thorough visual dissection of the female reproductive system. There’s a system of branching nerves that surround the birth canal to briefly bud up between the labia. Is that what’s responsible for that pleasurable little button?

You hear an over the top yawn behind you and snapping the book closed, you look over your shoulder to see your soulmate is stretching and sloughing off his covers. He notices you by the bookshelves and gestures to where Puppy lays resting amongst your moths, his blue eyelights ballooning with concern. You shrug. You aren’t interested in explaining as you embrace Sands in a good-morning hug. It’s incredible how good it feels to have his arms wrapped around you. You sigh softly into his shoulder, reveling in how his phalanges graze your shoulder blades and spine over your shirt. Your sweet Sands. So stalwart and sincere. You keep in contact with him for as long as possible and when he pulls away to scold you for not getting any sleep, it’s all you can do to keep yourself from falling into his arms again. You just need to nuzzle and rub yourself against him until…until…

Until what? What could you possibly seek to accomplish with this wanton behavior? A shred of apprehension slivers into your soul as your clouded mind confuses you. It’s swiftly overtaken by a willful conclusion—You’re not sure what will result from your improprietous proximity to Sands, but you’re exceedingly eager to find out.

* * *

Blue blushes as his lecture about the importance of a good night’s rest is met by your intensely affectionate stare. You’re uncooperative but he can’t be mad about it when you’re this cute. He glances towards his brother, worrying that Stretch may have scared you by coming to sleep by his side. Stretch is always sneaking into his brother’s bedroom. It’s been that way since he was a babybones. Papyrus has gotten ‘too mature’ for it much nowadays, but after an especially rough nightmare the old behavior resurfaces. Sans grimaces at the trails of orange streaking his brother’s skull and decides to let the lazybones sleep until you’re ready to leave.

He notices with surprise that Stretch smells like you. Is it because of your bug-bone attacks resting over him? Blue takes a second sniff. Actually… it seems _everything_ smells like you. You’re filling the room with an indescribably lovely fragrance. Your scent had gotten stronger after you’d eaten monster food. Blue had seen it as a good sign, that your soul was regaining strength. But the smell is even stronger this morning, and Blue has to avoid taking deep breaths of it to avoid getting ‘excited’.

Oh. Too late. He awkwardly tugs at his trousers and notices you’re equally, if not more, fidgety. You pull at your shirt’s collar and sweat slightly as you fiddle with your garments. Are you uncomfortable in his clothes? Blue is saddened by this, but he knows you’ll need something new to wear, anyway. You can’t go on a heroic rescue mission in pajamas! He doesn’t approve of shortcuts, but given the situation, some urgency is required. He tries to explain he’ll be right back, feeling bad at your disappointment, before disappearing and reappearing in a tailor’s shop in the city.

He takes a deep breath of the store’s stale, musky air, clearing his senses of your intoxicating aroma. Some distance will do him good. He needs to keep a clear head, so he doesn’t unintentionally frighten you again. The store hasn’t officially opened yet, as the sun has scarcely shown itself over the horizon, but Blue knows the humans here don’t mind his visits. He gets carried away, snatching up all the dresses in your size with flowers and lace galore. He leaves behind a pile of gold in compensation and teleports back to the tower.

You’re seated a few feet away from the sleeping Stretch, staring dreamily at him until Blue’s reappearance sends you staggering up and away. He’s starting to get concerned. You’re acting differently than earlier. But…Blue has known you less than a day. There’s no telling what your normal behavior is like. He takes a shallow, shaky inhale of your scent and steels himself, strolling up to you, displaying the dresses off his arm.

You make little delighted noises as you pilfer through the offered gowns, selecting a cotehardie with a wide and shallow neckline. You catch him off guard by grasping his hand and holding it to your cheekbone, cuddling into his carpals. He doesn’t move, rendered breathless by your boldness as you burrow your nasal ridge into his wrist. You progressively push all the planes of your skull into his captured hand until you guide his fingerbones upwards to enclose around one of your horns. Your intent burns with gratitude and desire.

Blue blusters, his hand automatically tensing around the protrusion of black bone. Its texture is coarse. It reminds him of volcanic rock as he thumbs its ridges. You hum appreciatively, arcing into the touch, your hand leaving his to clutch his radius as your tongue slips out to lick up its length. This time, Sans is sufficiently startled to lose his grip on you. He scurries a few steps back, sockets wide. His hand is hot where it’d made contact with your feverish skull.

What happening with you? He eyes you anxiously as you squirm, eyelights half lidded as you hold the gown tightly to your chest. He traces his phalanges over his radius where you magic had trailed wetly over the bone. He needs to get away before temptation takes over. Get some distance while you change, so he can’t be distracted from figuring out what’s going on with you. This frisky forwardness…you’re almost acting like you’re in rut. It can't be. It's not that time of year!

He hurriedly pulls you along to his nearest bedroom and shepherds you into the door, bolting as soon as you shut it to change. He sprints back to the library, searching the shelves for their copy of Monster Physiology. Blue’s is glad they brought so many volumes of reference books from their universe, as there’s no internet here to look up their questions. Information all must be memorized or stored in an encyclopedia somewhere, else it’s lost to them. He finds what he’s looking for and skips to the section on skeleton monsters. Sickness, sickness…there! He reads the chapter about illnesses that affect his kind. They are few and far between, none of which match your symptoms. It’s good that you’re not ill, but that leaves Blue with the unpleasant conclusion: you must be in a rut. Do ruts work differently on this world? Your unusually high temperature doesn’t correspond to anything he’s experienced and you’re not exhibiting the aggressively territorial behaviors that he’d expect. In fact, the only thing that’s rut-like it all is the sudden spike of your sex drive.

Sans turns to the subsection on mating behaviors. He quickly learns that female skeletons don’t go into rut. They have something else, with a similar purpose. Females have cyclic fluctuations in their magic which spike every three months, resulting in a “heat”. These heats are costly for the body to produce, as much magic is siphoned into preparing the body and soul for reproduction. Magic-starved monsters are unable to sustain their cycle without a sufficient magic intake. Even if a female does get plenty of monster food, she’s still in danger of losing massive amounts of magic with the strain of mass-producing pheromones and sustaining ecto-parts for prolonged periods.

His browbones crease with concern. You’re not losing too much magic, are you? You haven’t come back from his room yet. You’ve been in there longer than it would take to change. His soul thumps nervously in his ribcage. Blue lets the book fall off his lap as he races to where he left you. The gap at the bottom of the bedroom door leaks your scent and somehow it’s become even more potent, a certain sweetness to it that there hadn’t been before…

He knocks on the door, calling out nervously, “Y/N? Are You Okay In There?”

You reply and immediately let him in, your voice saturated with want and reassurance as you mutter, “Sands…”

The dress he’d picked out for you fits you well, the waistline flaring out cutely with embroidered blossoms. The only problem is…Blue blushes and averts his eyes. The top of the bodice is ill-fitting and if he peers down at the ~~right~~ wrong angle, he can see the front of your upper ribs. You don’t allow him to look away from you for long. You seize his hand and twirl yourself under his arm, showing off. You don’t let go of his attention as you back into the bed. Maintaining intent eye contact, you splay your legs open and pull up the hem of your dress over your knees.

Beneath the shadow of your skirts is the tantalizing glow of purple petals, decorating the entrance of a translucent pussy. He swallows thickly, frozen in place by the sight of it. You snake a hand to your ecto-labia, teasing and spreading them so Blue can see your tight tunnel in all its glory. He needs to look away, but he can’t. He’s mesmerized. There’s a shimmering liquid seeping from the inviting entrance and Blue’s tongue manifests, impatient to collect the fluid straight from its sweet source. Opaque veins of violet branch to frame the walls of your pussy and he aches to trace them from inside and out while he—Oh no. Blue squeaks, shutting his sockets. He can’t do any of that! You’re not in your right mind, and neither is he while that delectable scent is smothering him!

Blue blindly dashes for the door and slams it behind him. He weighs his back against it while his ribcage rises and falls heavily. Only after a minute of labored breathing does he dare reactivate his eyelights, which are still shaped into stars.

This morning has _not_ gone according to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are ya’ll ready for this? Cuz you know Skeader and the bois aren’t.  
> Skeader: Oh boy, I sure hope I have time to process all this crazy stuff that’s happening. *immediately goes into her first heat* …fuck me. Literally, please.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figure now is a good time to share this awesome fanart from vhutch88 of Skeader on the stairs with Stretch in awe of the backless dress:
> 
> <https://vhutch88-blog.tumblr.com/post/630189179957051392/papyrus-ogling-the-skeleton-reader-from>  
> 
> 
> Check it out!

Stretch is stunned as you saunter towards him. You’re wearing _that_ dress. It’s the first thing he’d seen you in and it’s seared into his mind forever, along with your scent.

You speak his language, adorable accent audible, “Puppy…I’ve been _such_ a bad monstah.” You slide your pointer distal down his sternum with a sultry sigh as you lean into him, coyly hiding your other hand behind your back. “Are yeh going ta punish me?”

He’s backed into a wall by your predatory advance, breathlessly demanding, “wha-what did you do?”

“Somethin’ veeeerry naughty…” you trail off, each word punctuated by a stroke of his ribs. He’s flooded with illicit excitement as you pin him with your pelvis. Your voice is viscous with malicious rapture. “Yeh won’t let me sin alone, will yeh? Let’s _share_ …”

You bring forth your hidden hand, revealing a ruby red soul. As soon as he sees it, it’s the sole color in the room. There’s only a monochrome you, the human soul, and dense, inky blackness extending in every direction. Ominous shadows sprout from the hearts’ crimson light. Its hellish glow alights your skull from below. You’re the very image of a skeletal succubus, demonically tempting him, lifting the forbidden fruit to his mouth.

“Fall in LoVe with me,” you plead, tenderness in your tone at odds with your aggressive entrapment of his body against the unyielding wall. Suddenly, he’s plummeting and you’re above him, straddling him and teasing the soul to his teeth. He twists his skull into the flooring, desperate to get the disgusting determination far from him. You don’t force it on him, simply humming and bringing the heart up before your socket. You hold it to your eye for a moment. Then, your seductive smile parts to let your colorless tongue swipe against your teeth. “Too hard ta swallow? Mummy’ll make it easy for ‘er Pup.”

You bring the soul to your open jaw and _b i t e_. It splits under your teeth, shattering and gushing determination that leaks from your maw onto his neck and collar. It scalds as it spills onto naked bone. He writhes against the pain but can’t escape it. You’ve trapped him and the heat is _everywhere_. You’re unaffected. The bite of soul is swallowed. Its blood is held in your mouth as you bring your skulls together. There’s a double-edged weapon of fiery warmth, composed of your carnal intentions smoldering over him and the blistering blood that drips down his ribs. He’s agonizingly aroused. You kiss him and let the determination pour from you as your tongues tangle.

It melts him from the inside. The last thing his dissipating soul sees is you licking your gore-stained mandible, a sinister grin on your skull as you stare down his dust.

He jerks awake, panting. The covers smother his already overheated body and he throws them back. The nightmare drained him. He’d sweat swathes of magic into the sheets, though there’s still sufficient levels for his shaft to have formed. His pajama bottoms are tented with excitement. He abashedly adjusts his pelvis, remembering…

Your half-lidded eyes, sinfully hungry for him.

_it’s not real._

The soul you’d stolen, savored, and absorbed without remorse.

_it’s not real._

Determination. The reason he’d abandoned his hope, his friends, his universe. 

_it’s not real, not here._

He holds his skull in his hands, hyperventilating as the mantra fails to calm him. What if he’d messed up with the machine? Its readings had come up negative on any sign of DT in this universe which had its soul color ratios all out of balance. The data showed no red souls and a remarkably low frequency of green or purple. Stretch thinks that’s why this world’s society is stuck in the dark ages. Without determination to push humanity’s progress, they’ve stagnated. Mages seized power and built a theocracy around submitting to what’s ‘natural’. Worse yet, they’ve monopolized kindness and healing as exclusively owed to their complacent subjects. He couldn’t stand to see it. He’d allowed the humans think he was a deity and used his status to help along humanity, trying not to let it go to his head.

Yet, he can’t shake the feeling that the whole place is too good to be true. Is it possible that not humans, but monsters have determination in this universe? Do _you_ have determination? You certainly have EXP, And LV. Not a negligible amount of it, either. He wanted to tell Blue, but… his brother had been so happy to have found you and your soul started singing so beautifully…he didn’t want to spoil the moment. Now he’s thinking that had been a mistake.

His soul convulses with fear as he clammers off the floor. It’s been a long time since he’d been concerned for Sans’ safety. The humans here aren’t a threat. The total absence of determination has made their souls structurally weak, even weaker than a monsters’. You, though, you’re dangerous. And presumably alone with Sans. Stretch’s compromisingly scaroused state is forgotten as he panics to find you.

There’s no need to teleport around the tower. He can smell you. Stretch simply follows the trail of mouthwatering sweetness to the stairs. Blue is sprawled on the steps. You straddle him, trapping him below you. He breaks out of his dazed paralysis enough to tilt his azure skull backwards to peer up at Stretch with a whine. You merely acknowledge your Puppy’s arrival with a small smirk, your eyelights lustful half-circles as you sit atop Sans’ spine, skirts bunching up over your patellas.

He’s struck with déjà vu as his brother takes his place from the nightmare. The only thing missing is the stolen soul, its determination dripping with destructive heat. It takes the flustered cry of Blue yelping, “Help!” to snap him out of his stupor. He envelops your soul with gravity magic and frees Blue from you, making you fall into the stone wall.

You’re shaken and disturbed for a moment, eyelights shocked back to full circles, before your resistance fades and he allows you to sink to the floor. Your eyelights are blurrily bright. They’re locked on him as you appraise the tall skeleton critically, as if you’re deciding what he’s worth. He can’t tear his sight from those hypnotizing twin moons in your sockets even as Blue collects himself off the stairs and comes to stand beside him.

After a thorough inspection of his body and a reflection on his abilities, you seem to conclude him worthy. Your eyelights relax back to crescents and your bony hands clutch the folds of fabric covering your legs, drawing them up and over your femurs until—

Blue bounds into action. Having anticipated this behavior, he proactively pulls your skirt back around your ankles where he holds it, and your legs, tightly together. You react to his nearness by cooing and nuzzling his neck, caressing him everywhere that you can reach. His skull is entirely blue as he glowers up at Stretch, tone scolding rather than scared this time as he demands, “Don’t Just Stand There And Watch, Help Me! She’s Gone Into Heat And She’s—”

He squeaks as you squeeze a special spot on his spine. He rearranges his position so that one hand holds your ankles and the other binds your wrists. Stretch understands what Blue’s talking about now. You’re a different kind of dangerous than he thought, and those hands need to be kept out of trouble. “heat, huh?” Queen Tori had those occasionally. He, and everyone else in the monster kingdom, had been banned from visiting her until it’d passed. “guess she’s horny in more ways than one.”

“Pappy, Focus!” Blue groans, “We Need To Get Her To The Library, So We Can Keep An Eye On Her While We Find Out How To Get Her Back To Normal.”

Papyrus approaches you, hesitantly considering how to hold you so that you can be transported without incident. “don’t think it’ll be that easy. but, bro…”

“What?” Sans prompts curtly, struggling to keep you restrained as your caught hands wriggle for purchase on his bones.

Stretch’s skull heats with an orange flush as he asks, “is y/n…wearing underwear?” It’s embarrassing but he has to know: If Blue hadn’t stopped you earlier, would he have caught a glimpse of your entirely exposed pelvis?

“No. No, She Is Not.” he answers wearily.

Stretch fiddles with his hoodie strings, an ounce of sternness slipping in as he says, “Sans…”

He jumps to explain, “I Forgot To Get Her Some, Okay? I Was In A Rush, And-And You’ve Smelled Her, You Know How Distracting And Delicious And—” He pauses to take a breath and in that time his expression morphs from defensive to stubborn. “You Know What, If You’re Not Going To Help, I’m Going To Handle This Myself.”

Sans teleports away with you, leaving Papyrus with a pit in his soul. He doesn’t think it’s such a good idea to leave you alone with his brother right now. He immediately takes a shortcut to the library where he says as much. “not that i don’t trust you, but you’re right, bro. i have smelled her. those pheromones are a doozy and i know you’ve been getting whiffs of them for a lot longer than i have. you doing ok?” While he had gotten intensely aroused from simply sleeping in a room saturated with your scent, Sans has been getting it straight from the source and it must be taking its toll.

“I Am Perfectly In Control,” Sans insists in his all-business big brother voice as he aggressively arranges the blankets into a nest around you. Interestingly, you don’t interrupt this task. You encourage him by getting cozy in the pile of pillows, lounging leisurely as he pads the area around you with cushions stolen off the armchairs. Once the several yard circle around you is as plush as possible, he lingers at the border of the blanket nest.

You make a come-hither motion with your phalanges from your perch on the pillows. You try to coax him toward you, seductively exaggerating the curve of your spine as you jut out your ribcage. Stretch watches attentively for any sign that he intends to join you, but he resists. Frustrated, you turn your wiles to the younger brother. You flip onto your front and raise your hips into the air. You sway them teasingly, skull twisting towards Papyrus, peering behind you to simper at his coloring cheekbones. 

Blue spans the circumference of the nest to block his view, huffing, “If You’re Going To Stick Around, You Should Make Yourself Useful. Bring Me Some Rope.”

“…rope?” Stretch repeats feebly, thinking there’s no way that he heard that correctly.

“Yes. Seeing As Our Soulmate Is Persistent In Her Efforts To Remove Her Clothing And Ours, I Imagine It Will Be Much Easier To Get Research Done If She Is Incapacitated. Comfortably, Of Course.” Perfectly timed with Sans’ explanation is your second attempt to lift your skirts for Stretch. Blue nips it in the bud, flattening you flush into the blankets and covering your lower half with a blanket that you immediately kick off. He sighs and wipes at a bead of sweat that threatened to drip into his socket as tries to hold you down without letting you get ahold of him. “ _Rope_. Sometime Today, Please!” he snarks as his patience thins.

“ok, ok. rope. right.” Papyrus’ mind stutters as he pictures the different kinds of cords they could use on you. “uh, we’ve got the sticky string stuff, from the traps, then i guess there’s, er…” He has his own ‘personal’ set from his shibari starter kit. The council has a gyftmas exchange that half of the alternates treat like a white elephant. Rus got a bit risqué with his gag gifts a few years back. Along with Stretch’s shibari set, he’d given vanilla Papyrus a set of fuzzy handcuffs and Classic had _not_ found it funny.

“Use Your Bondage Ones. Those Are Sturdier And Won’t Make As Much Of A Mess.”

Stretch gulps. “didn’t think you knew about those, bro.” He’d tried to hide it back in the bag as soon as he’d pulled it out. It was enough time for Rus to wink at him (though he supposes it could have been a blink, as he only has one good socket) but not enough for Blue to see, as he was occupied with unwrapping his own presents.

“Ink Creates Most Of Our Gyftmas Presents And You Know That One Can’t Keep A Secret,” Sans explains. It’s a well-known fact among his alternates that the soulless skeleton, while friendly and cooperative with everyone, has a proclivity to be a bit too free with his eclectic knowledge. The vast majority of the council gossip comes from its de facto leader not knowing when to shut his teeth. Stretch curses that quality of his but acknowledges that the AU-hopper has a wealth of valuable talents.

“do you think he’d know how to help, with all this?” he gestures to where you struggle against your own heat, a sheen of magical sweat coating your bones with a light glistening of lavender.

“He Might…But He Won’t Be Seeing Her. It’s Not Safe. If He Finds Out About Y/N, Then They All Will. And You Know How Red Will React,” Blue’s expression darkens as he dwells on it.

If Red found out about you, Stretch is sure he’d make it his goal in life to capture you. Especially if he realizes you’re their supposed soulmate. Red and Edge love to spite their alternates and rub their ‘victories’ in their skulls. Since their arrival they’d always had somewhat of an “us vs the world” mindset, but that complex worsened once they’d started seeing the other skeleton monsters as out to get them.

It’d started with the Swapfells and Fellswaps teaming up to steal their machine. As one of the few things Ink can’t replicate, the machines are a valuable resource. They are the monsters’ ticket to the multiverse. Without it, they’re stuck here. Not that any of them really want to leave. It’s more of a status symbol, the idea of freedom, a sign of security and power over the AUs.

After the fells had lost theirs, they’d sporadically attempted to steal the swaps’. They’re an easier target than the allied Swapfells and their defeat would come with a whole healthy city’s worth of human souls to devour.

The human souls here scarcely raise stats when absorbed. That’s a good thing for the non-fell skeleton monsters, because elsewise they’d have been dust along time ago. However, it’s a not-so-good thing for the humans, as that means it’ll take consuming cities worth of souls for Red to achieve the power he wants. 

Red’s already overtaken Stretch, magic-wise, but the difference in ability is slight and the gold-toothed monster would have to risk his neck to make use of that disparity. He’s not willing to do that over a machine he’ll probably never use. You, though…with growing dread Stretch wonders whether Red will think you’re worth that risk.

“Rope! Now!!!” Blue’s urgent demand jolts him from his thoughts, and he notices how his brother is wearying from having to wrestle with you.

“sorry, be right back.” Stretch shortcuts to one of his rooms. He anxiously searches for the box, hyperaware of how every second he’s here might be one where you or Blue do something you’ll later regret. Finally, he finds it and instantly ports back to the library.

Your and Sans’ skulls are leaned in close, mere inches apart. He doesn’t bother to look away from you as he says, “Bring It Over.”

To Stretch, it seems like he’s scarcely hanging on to his last threat of self-control. “don’t you think, that uh, maybe i should be the one to—”

“No.” Blue breaks eye contact with you only to seize the box and send a scorching glare towards Stretch when he doesn’t move away fast enough. Blue protectively puffs up and puts himself between you and the lanky skeleton. “Back Off, Brother. I Won’t Have Your Papyrus Problem Popping Up And Scaring Our Soulmate Again!”

His volume lowers to a bitter whisper as he murmurs, “Not that she’s scared of you anymore. She was ready to jump your bones the minute she saw you this morning.”

He points to the farthest end of the room, snarling, “Stay Over There!” Seeing this side of Sans is distressing but familiar to Papyrus, as his brother becomes endlessly envious during his ruts. It’s in those meaner moments of Blue’s jealousy that Stretch sees his similarity to Razz. Most of their arguments over the years had started with that instinctual urge to butt heads with every male monster around, caused by mating season twice a year. With Sans and him sharing a space, it would swiftly devolve into verbal battles between them as they each sought to expand their territory in the tower. Blue would covet one of Stretch’s rooms and wield his big-brotherness entitledly as he worked at snatching it away.

In this circumstance, Stretch guesses Sans’ entitlement stems from how he’d had a monopoly on your affections before you’d gone onto heat. Now, you’re paying Stretch positive attention and his straining instincts aren’t sure how to handle it. Blue snatches a bundle of rope and unwinds it to circle your arms and torso together. He cinches it tightly and knots it before you can process it or struggle too much. The process is repeated until you’re well-wound and that’s when he makes a critical mistake. He’s tying the top of the twine’s corset of coils when his hand brushes against your front ribs. You gasp sharply in pleasure at the contact. The noise astounds and alarms the male skeletons. Blue reacts to you whimpering beneath him by shooting up, shouting, “I-I HAVE TO GO!”

Stretch shares a shocked look with you at his brother’s abrupt shortcut. The surprise on your skull settles into something sinister as you realize he’s alone with you. With Blue gone and your body half restrained, your full attention on him…Stretch swallows, sweating. He’s in trouble.

* * *

You had him. Damn it, _you had him_! Sands was ready to give in and then he just…left! At least Puppy is here to keep you company. You chuckle at his fearfully wide sockets. He’s not your soulmate, but since your soulmate decided to ignore your needs and leave you with another male, you might just teach him a lesson in not appreciating your one true love. A lesson that involves you fucking Puppy so hard that Sands hears your screams from wherever it is he upped off to.

Puppy will treat you right. The mysterious magical abilities that had once scared you now excite you as you recall how he’d manipulated the pull of the earth. He’s powerful. You haven’t the foggiest idea what that type of ability is even called, but it impressed you. Impressed you enough that you’d made him a little something.

You smirk at him as you armlessly hoist yourself to a seated position. Really, it’d been both amusing and frustrating to see the boys arguing over you. You wish they’d let you show them how silly it all was. That there’s no need to fight, because your magic made sure you can accommodate the both of them _just fine_ …

This time Sands isn’t here to stop you as you spread your legs, your skirt seized between your teeth and tugged up to reveal your twin pussies. The first and frontal cavity was designed for your soulmate. You’d used the anatomy book and your dresses’ flowers for inspiration. You’re rather proud of how it turned out. The second, rear cavity had been a last-minute addition. There’s no art to it. Only a warm, wet tunnel of magic. It appears that it is at least adequate as Puppy chokes and his entire body tenses to restrain himself from taking you.

You drop the fabric from your teeth as your bent legs keep it from blocking the view. “Don’t resist, Puppy. Come on, take your pick,” you encourage, eagerness emanating from your posture as you angle your pelvis towards him, legs parted as far as possible. You dare say he understands the gist of your words as he staggers towards you to do exactly that.

Your pussies pulse with arousal as he takes a step, then another, then another, until your fluids are soaking the blankets beneath you and your breaths are jagged with anticipation. He’s so close you’d be able to reach out and free that glowing bulge in his pants if your arms weren’t anchored to your sides. You’re unable to acknowledge his proximity with anything more than an impatient whine and a squirming within the rope as his hands descend on your bare ankles.

His bones are cool and coarse against your own. They produce an enchanting friction as he threads his phalanges between your fibula and tibias, bringing them together and holding them in one hand. The contact alights the inside of your legbones and draws a pleased purr from you. He strokes the groove of your talus as he retrieves additional rope and a book from the box.

This book is smaller than the ones you’ve seen. More akin to a pamphlet. What interests you about it are the pictures. Painting after painting of nude humans, restrained with increasingly elaborate knots and netting and…looking rather pleased about it. It’s instructional, and Puppy references it as he begins to bind your ankles.

“You fiend!” you curse him in your great frustration, feet fighting against their restrictions to try and kick at Puppy in betrayal of your delectable plans for him. But with that book being so overtly sexual, your addled mind wonders if this is some unnatural form of foreplay. It wouldn’t be the first time these skeletons have flummoxed you with their customs. If that’s the case, then hopefully once he’s at the end of his rope, Puppy will finally throw you a bone.

In the meantime, you enjoy his touches while they last. He meticulously braids the rope to loop-chain up your bare lower body. The coarseness of the rope’s caress is stimulating on your sensitive bones. It winds up, and up, and up. It’s hitting your femurs now and Puppy’s phalanges are achingly near to your pussies. He’s undeniably aware of this as he pauses his plaiting. His bony fingertips quiver as they make contact with the bare bone of your midthigh, delicately smoothing the surface and gradually ascending—

The clatter of a dozen books falling from the shelves interrupts him. Puppy searches his surrounding for the source of the commotion, but you already know, clenching your jaw and grounding out, “Zounds, spirits. Now, of all times, with your mischief?! Begone!”

The damage is already done, however, as the distraction was enough for Puppy to have stopped tantalizingly high up on your femurs to gather himself. He wipes the drool from his mandible and pulls your skirts back over your bones, hiding his woven work and leaving you maddeningly immobile.

You scowl. He’s so blatantly seduced but refusing to do anything about it. It’s frustrating that it’s taking so long for him to give in. You’d thought he’d be the easy one, with the way he’d stolen you to his bedchambers at first meeting. Should you be insulted that the bedswerver has retracted his impatient passions? Or is it the fear of inducing Sands’ wrath that keeps the salacious skeleton from exercising his lustful tendencies on your very willing body? You suppose it doesn't matter, shuffling your humeri between the binds querulously. You want his magic. No, _need,_ his magic. He has so much of it…and you’ll be making _sure_ he shares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have two pussies now. That's my attack!  
> You thought you were getting shameless smut and you actually got a reveal! What do ya’ll think of our bois reason for crowding Skeader’s world with skeletons? I suppose I technically lied in the tags about this fic taking place in Ye Olde Times. Reader’s world is in the 21st century but permanently primitive due to humanity's lacking determination to "change their fate".
> 
> Author, drawing fanart for her own fic: Hmm, this skeleton needs sexier bedroom eyes…  
> Ancestors, watching over author: … *shaking their heads in shame*  
> Skeader, sitting in the corner, staring sadly at the beautiful pussies she summoned that no one will fuck: I maked these ;-;


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is almost completely pure, skippable smut! Mind the tags and enjoy or ignore at your discretion.

Despite your downright predatory glare, Stretch decides the danger has passed. You’re securely restrained and he successfully skirted temptation. Very narrowly, but, nonetheless. His half of your binds are hidden under the billows of your dress. Thank the stars this world’s clothing covers as much as it does, and that its objects inexplicably heave themselves from their resting places when he’s about to lose control. It’s not the first time he’s found his life here resembling found footage from a human ghost film. There are strange happenings and Blue had begun to believe that the ancient tower they adapted into their home was someone else’s home first…a someone that hasn’t left yet. But that wouldn’t make sense. If their home were haunted, Stretch would be able to see the ghosts, their souls obvious as they act on the environment. Yet, there are never any stray souls to be found.

Picking himself off the ground, he collects the fallen books and brushes them off before returning them to their rightful place. One was separate from the others, its open pages crushed and crumpled by its own cover collapsing onto them. As he smooths the creases in the parchment, he notices it’d been opened to a section on skeleton monsters’ sexual behavior. Had Sans already started his research? Stretch doesn’t place this one back, instead scanning for a solution to the subject of the more urgent mystery: your heat. A quick glance behind him shows your eyelights haven’t left him. You’re still staring hungrily, seated unhappily in the blanket pile, refusing to rest as you wrestle with the ropes.

It’s distressing to see you like this. While the sight and scent of you are exceedingly pleasing to his senses, your blatant dissatisfaction makes his soul sadden. Hopefully, he’ll be able to help once he’s well-read on your…condition. He settles into an armchair a safe distance away and tries to ignore your insistent attention as he reads. There are several things he manages to learn before the first of your interruptions. One—heats last an average of three to five days. Not ideal (he can’t imagine staying sane while breathing in your pheromones for five days straight), but at least he knows it’ll end eventually, without his or anyone else’s, uh, _intervention_. If said intervention _did_ occur and a soul was conceived, then the females’ heat would end prematurely, and she’d skip the next phase of her cycle. He tries to ignore how much that option appeals to him. Is Stretch seriously getting turned on by a physiology textbook?

Two—when the heat has burned off, it’s followed by a recovery period with hibernation-like levels of low magic. A cold, it’s called. As monsters aren’t particularly creative with their names, it’s self-explanatory. The cold puts a freeze on extraneous magic output and lowers the body’s temperature to a slow and sleepy state. It lasts for as long as it takes for the female monster to recover her balance and thus reenter the “normal” portion of her cycle, where she spends most of the months. This reentry into normalness is altered if soul creation is occurring. There’s an increase in appetite, in more ways than one, if the monster is sustaining a new soul in addition to her own.

Once again Stretch finds himself shamefully over-interested in what the reference book has to say. He’s reminded of the time he’d spent on the undernet as a teenager, cringily scouring for pictures of female skeletons, before his big brother dropped the bomb that their subspecies is effectively extinct. Therein lies his problem…he feels like he should already be knowledgeable about your health and anatomy, being the one who comes from a universe with more access to information, but in his world, female skeletons were little more than fantasy or… history. He’d resisted studying the topic because it was no longer relevant and that…made him sad. The only thing that could save the skeleton species was science, and Stretch had dedicated a portion of his mostly self-guided schooling growing up to the process of cloning. A specialty of knowledge that he’d never made use of, as he’d realized the idea of replicating a piece of his own soul rubs him the wrong way.

The third, and last, thing that he discovers before your interruption is that a female’s pheromones can fluctuate in function based on her perceived situation. Their primary purpose is to attract mates and incentivize coupling. Unlike a male’s pheromones, mostly utilized in ruts to scent mark and send messages to rivals, the females’ are flexible and powerful, able to affect nearby monsters more deeply. Their intensity can be damn-near druglike in their concentrated forms. They are costly to produce and terribly effective in stimulating a pseudo-heat in whoever receives them. The effects of this false heat are dependent on the recipient’s relation to the female, but, almost ubiquitously, fellow females will sync their cycles and males will trigger territorial and nesting behaviors.

Stretch desperately looks for a counter measure to these potent pheromones but before he can find it, he’s given pause by the presence of a moth plopping onto the page he’s perusing. The moth is joined by another, and another, until they’re all but swarming the book and his surroundings. When he looks up at you, you’ve adopted an air of innocence, as if your winged insects decided of their own volition to obstruct his reading. He snorts in amusement and starts to shoo them away. The ones who are swiped off simply return to the swarm surrounding him. 

It’s when he continues reading that the swarm becomes rather interested in itself. Stretch leans back in astonishment as your moths start to fuck each other. Or try to, at least. They’re only exoskeletons and lack the necessary bits to copulate. That doesn’t keep them from persistently mounting each other, even midair, to wrap their little bug legs around each other as their wings dance and propel their bodies closer together. He holds in a snicker. Are you trying to send him a message? Set his mind on sex? He’s sure if you could’ve, you’d have put on porn to “put him in the mood”, but instead you only had access to the equivalent of a nature documentary about the reproductive habits of invertebrates. If only you knew that the book you’re distracting him from was doing more for him than this. In fact, some of the smoldering sexual tension is dispelled by this display and your endearing persistence.

“nyeheheh,” he chuckles softly. “very subtle, y/n.” He disregards the whispers of carnal intent he feels from you through the moths as he gently flicks them from the book to continue reading. He holds the cover up higher to block his view of you, so he doesn’t become sidetracked by that sweet little scowl on your skull. Involuntary, he instead notices a few stray moths slowing crawling their way towards him from the ground. They’re kept from the faux moth orgy by broken wings, bent or torn. They’re pitiful in their attempts to join the others. It’s pure instinct, on Stretch’s part, to assist. He raises them from the burden of gravity and allow them to eagerly float towards the swarm’s festivities. The whole thing is wholesome…and weird.

Shrugging it off, he resumes his research. He doesn’t get much further before you’re distracting him again. He feels the tip of your hallux toying with the top of his foot bones. He drops the book in his lap to see you’ve scooted from the blanket pile to worm your way in front of him. He is made to regret taking his eyelights off you. The teasing you can do is limited with the motion of your bound ankles but you manage to engage him plenty, practically playing footsie with him. It takes the intertwining of your toe-bones in his, in an odd foothold, for him to break from his flustered confusion and pull his feet under him in the chair, sitting on them and protecting them from your antics.

He encompasses you and your moths with his magic and banishes you back to the blanket nest. You predictably and passionately tirade against this dismissal. He does his best to block out the sling of incomprehensible curses until the sound of ripping fabric has him startledly looking around to see the source is you. Your arms remain obstructed so how did you manage—oh.

Stretch witnesses the emergence of three thick tentacles. They sprout from the base of your spine where presumably they’re torn through the skirt above your tailbone. Their magic is more opaquely pigmented than your pu—uh, other parts had been. Their purple is nearly dark enough to hide the shadows of suckers on their underside. They are notably prehensile, adept as their wet ends work at unweaving your binds.

Stretch starts to sweat at the strong scent seeping from the slickness of your tentacles. Why are there tentacles? Why are they wet? And wet with _what,_ exactly _,_ he can only wonder as his mind struggles to remain clear. He’s not in the least bit prepared for this. And judging by the deft speed with which you’re escaping the rope he’ll need to become prepared quickly or else he’ll lose what little control he has over the situation.

He shortcuts behind you and bunches the tentacles’ bases in one hand, wrangling the unruly tips with the other. It takes your delighted whine at the contact for him to put it together. This isn’t attack magic. These are made for mating. Papyrus is balked by a sudden sense of insecurity. Are the male monsters of your universe supposed to have horns and tentacles too? He can only guess at how _insufficient_ he must seem without them. Maybe he could manifest his own tentacles to duel with yours…but that would take practice and already yours have writhed in his grip to cast their own hold on him. His receptive bones can feel your suction cups _sucking at him_ with every inch the slick limbs have latched on.

While your body still burns with heat, the dampness of your tentacles is cool and comforting. The sensation soothes his oversensitive bones and when he manages to free his hands from them with a _pop_ , he misses the tingle of their magic against his. There’s a certain dampness left behind and before he can think better of it, he licks it. The sensual sweetness meets his tongue with a moan. _oh stars_. He didn’t know it was possible for anything to taste this good, even better than honey. “mhmm…” he enthusiastically laps at the leavings of your magic until there’s nothing left but his own drool.

You kick off the untangled ropes and Stretch jolts from his reverie at the sight of you standing, uninhibited. He backs away, summoning a bone to block and bat away your tentacles as they lunge at his limbs. He’s reminded of Undyne’s explicit monster girl mangas. Particularly, the one that ended with a monster hopelessly captured by winding tentacles and pleasured until there was no will left to struggle. The imminent similarity of the erotica to his current situation is ~~really fucking hot~~ terrifying.

His resistance is half-hearted. When the bone is thrown to the side and his ankle is snagged, he’s already given in, accepting his lot in life as his back falls into the blankets. You climb above him, a smile gracing your skull. Your voice is melodic, gentle, as your hands dig into the hoodie above his ribs and your tentacles creep up to frame his face. They rub his jaw and encircle the vertebrae of his neck. Delicately, at first. But when he doesn’t do what you want it squeezes, constricting. He doesn’t strictly _need_ to breath, true, and even if he did his neck needn’t be involved, yet the pressure of you encompassing the vulnerable juncture of his head and spine has him gasping.

You seize the opportunity. The tip of a tentacle curls over his teeth to hold his jaw down while another ventures into the void of his mouth. Automatically, his tongue meets it, tasting the ambrosial moisture coating the appendage. His own magic floods his mouth with fluid and with aroused awe he notices how the tentacle _absorbs_ it, the suction cups constricting and coaxing more magic into you. It thrusts deeper into the darkness of his maw and he chokes out your name around it. It’s deep. Deeper than he’d ever tested it and without the void magic natural to his subspecies he knows your tentacle tip would’ve met the inside of the back of his skull several inches ago.

His head is light, despite being full, and his body feels floaty. He can’t think of much of anything besides the way your magic is thrusting in and out of his mouth. More of his orange saliva pools to accommodate its presence and you greedily soak it up. You don’t allow any of it to leak, the appendage keeping his jaw open collecting any that threatens to spill over. His eyelights threaten to roll back into his head. His dream had been wrong. Succubi don’t feed you, they feed _from_ you. And the skeletal succubus above him is taking great relish in doing so, moaning and celebrating each thrust into his void. Your pussies press into his (tragically) clothed pelvis as you grind into the moistening material.

He should stop you or…or…teleport away. You don’t know what you’re doing. _He_ doesn’t know what you’re doing. But your tentacles clearly do as the third seeks the other source of magic, seeping beneath his shorts. It slithers past his boxer’s waistband and coils around him, base to tip, squeezing and sucking and—

_Fuck_. He swears he sees stars as the muscular limb milks him. Its cool dampness constricts around him, temperature contrasting sharply with his heated member. Its pace is mind-breakingly brutal. He can no longer support the idea of running away, of being anywhere but here, as it compresses him in irregular patterns along his length. Its suction cups make every effort to collect the precum that's coalesced on his tip. Your skull hovers above his freed cock, ready to slurp up his cum. It doesn’t take long for the overstimulation to send him shooting his load into your waiting mouth, your tongue twirling around the tip of his shaft...Stretch’s screams are muffled by the tentacle skull-fucking him.

“mh, rkh—” he wants to beg, to plead, to lavish you with praise for your performance, but you’re still seeking your own release, harshly plunging in and out of his maw. He gets no reprieve, for his contributions. The moment his shaft no longer provides you with his lifeforce the tentacle renews its ministrations and jerks him until he’s close to shattering. It's fast... _tight_...harsh and soft, pleasurable and painful...

Once it’s too much, he grabs your horns to pull your mouth down to fully sheathe his cock as he cums again, not noticing that your tentacle has withdrawn from his own maw until he distantly recognizes his own voice, hazy yet audible, “please, _please_ y/n—ah, mmh, fuck!”

He can feel your mouth’s magic around him, absorbing his release with an aggressive intensity. It crackles and pulses with power around him until the feeling abruptly evaporates. His sockets blearily blink open (when had he closed them?) and he feebly lifts his head to see that his shaft has disappeared. His skull collapses back into the blankets. He doesn’t have enough left in him to give…he’s weakened, strength siphoned away by those skillful suckers…

You tut disapprovingly at this development, but Stretch can’t find it in him to react. He’s spent. The restless heat in his bones has given way to a buoyancy. He’s floating in a pool of perfectly sweet and temperate water under a lovely spot of shade. Drifting. He smiles and sighs into the blankets, content.

* * *

_Not long ago…_

Blue drops face first onto his bed. It’s where you’d _exhibited_ yourself earlier and traces of your magic linger on the sheets. He furls his fists into the covers. He’s a terrible older brother, leaving Stretch to the wolves (or _wolf_ , rather), but he’s got bigger problems right now. One of these problems is pressing into the mattress where it’s bulging against the front of his pants. He takes a calming breath here, while it’s relatively safe to, and turns onto his back with a longing groan.

The enticing sounds and smells of his soulmate in heat…it’d all been too much. His increase in sensitivity hadn’t helped. Your condition must be contagious as Blue swelters, his sweat practically steaming off his bones. His hold goes to his chest where he rubs the lower curve of his false ribs. _So Good…_

Self-control thrown to the breeze in his solitude, Sans strokes his sternum. His fingerbones slip under his shirt and in between his ribs to clutch them like the rungs of a ladder he threatens to fall from. His other hand burrows past his waistband to seize the fully formed magic that’s slick with his own anticipation. As the sensitive shaft throbs in his grip, he gives it a slight squeeze, thoughts returning to you in the nest he’d created. He hadn’t known that making a mating nest was even in his prerogative, but in the moment, it’d been as natural as breathing.

Just as natural and automatic as the understanding of what that nest was for. A comfortable, safe space for you to show your soul, for him to fill you up with magic. Enough magic for you to make as many babybones as you wanted. He stops stroking himself, staring at the ceiling in critical reflection. Is he really jerking off to the idea of having kids with you? He’s known you one day!

But…he can dream, right? He’d given up hope on the skeleton sub-species surviving past Papyrus, so many had been killed in the war that’d ended with the monsters’ isolation underground. The possibility of his kind carrying on through you and his family is precious and…incredibly arousing. He imagines prodding past those purple petals to prepare you for the costly magic of soul creation, sharing his energy and lifeforce again and again until he’s too drained to stand. You’d take care of him though, nurturing him through his depleted state as your maternal instincts ignite with the conception of his offspring.

Ohhh, you’d take _such_ good care of him. And he’d return the favor, making sure he never heard another one of those desperate, pleading whines from you as you’d be far too occupied in moaning in ecstasy with every thrust of his cock into that perfect pussy. He ruts into his hand until he dirties his bed with a spewing of magic. He breathes heavily and after his peak passes, he can’t help but frown at how much of a _waste_ it is as his cum sullies the sheets instead of supplying you with energy.

He sits up and with wobbly legs makes his way to the adjoining bathroom to wash his hands in the tub. Cumming has given him a sense of clarity. Relative to _before_ , at least. He needs to make sure you and his brother are okay. He really shouldn’t have left. It was selfish of him to seek his own release while you and Pappy are struggling. He briskly flicks the water from his fingers and speedwalks up the stairs.

He sucks in a breath at the sharpness of your scent from beyond the threshold of the library. Was it that strong before, or has his break from it heightened his awareness? He braces himself, opening the door to a scene that has his soul stuttering. The rope is draped uselessly over the stone floor. Your limbs are free. Though you perk up at his presence, you remain protectively curled over Stretch, whose skull is split with a dopey grin.

The clear-headedness he’d attained vanishes in an instant at the sight of his brother invading the nest. If you’d shown the slightest sign of being taken advantage of, he’d have lost it. As is, with your skirt modestly mid-tibula and bodice intact, he tries his best to keep his composure. “Papyrus, I Leave You Alone For Ten Minutes, And What Do You Do?! So Help Me!”

“ten?” Stretch rumbles weakly. It’s then that Sans notices how his sockets are straining to stay open. His sleepiness isn’t enough to deter this lecture, though, not by a longshot.

“Yes, Ten Minutes! And That Was Not A Rhetorical Question. What. Did. You. Do?” Blue punctuates each word with a poke in the air toward his baby brother, who has the audacity to roll further into your side away from the intrusive noise. “Argh, I’m Serious, Papryus! _What Did You Do_?!”

He appears to be without a care in the world, yawning into your ribcage, “nothin.”

Sans scoffs, folding his arms over his chest. “You Expect Me To Believe That Y/N Untied Herself, And You, What, Just Watched?”

“yeah.” his voice is muffled by your chest but there’s no masking the nonchalance. That’s it. Sans stormily crosses the distance between he and his uncooperative brother. As he draws near, your hand comes to stroke the back of Stretch’s skull to draw him closer into you. Blue notices the swish of something coming up to rest on Stretch’s bare legbones. A tail—two, no, three tails! T-tentacles? Those are your…tentacles. Purple and plump, darkly slick with…something. Their suckered side sneaks up and around Papyrus’ fibula, snakelike as it coils around him. Another seeks to seize Sans’ ankle, but he jumps back. The tip of the tentacle is tinted with orange. _Pappy’s_ orange.

“Oh Dear.” He chews the ends of his phalanges. You really did untie yourself, didn’t you? And Pappy was defenseless to your devices. Blue’s ire shifts from his exhausted brother to his smug and cozy soulmate, putting the pieces together. “Y/N, Don’t Eat Others’ Magic! We Only Absorb From Food. Pappy Is NOT Food!” His finger wags with his scolding. He knows this behavior is natural but…you can’t just go around stealing their magic like that! It’s dangerous to leave them defenseless. What if the fells attack?! Sure, Sans had fantasized about slipping into that depleted state with you, but it’d been just that—a fantasy—and now he’s stuck in reality with two vulnerable and ravenous skeletons. He shakes his head, steeling himself, “Alright You Two. Don’t Go Anywhere.”

No protests from Pappy as he seems quite content to stay in your nest. You, however, hoist yourself up on an elbow as he tries to leave, voicing an adorably needy, “Sands?” He sighs and makes the sign for eating, gaining your approval as you settle back into snuggling Stretch.

He goes to the kitchen to prepare a meal before his soulmate can summon _more_ surprises or his brother becomes even _more_ loopy. He grumbles to himself, prophesying, “Those Two Will Be The Death Of Me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since male and female skeletons can summon whatever magical bits for mating, I interpret the reproductive differences as being more about who’s taking magic and who’s giving it.  
> Say it with me folks, “Skeletons don’t have a gag reflex.” ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)  
> SKEADER uses Sensual Moth Dance!  
> It’s not very effective…  
> SKEADER uses Footsie!  
> PUPPY is confused…  
> SKEADER uses Tentacle Attack!  
> It’s super effective!!! PUPPY faints!


	10. Chapter 10

Your desire has not abated. It has, however, been temporarily superseded by the overpowering urge to protect Puppy. He’s defenseless. You _made_ him defenseless. That responsibility anchors you from floating off on waves of lust and sensation. When Sands exits to retrieve food, you’re left with conflicting emotions. You can’t fuck him until he gets back. Disappointing. But, with him gone, there’s no one to yell at or antagonize Puppy. You relax and whisper to the snoozing skeleton in your arms, “Sands shouldn’t have been so persnickety with you. You’ve earned your rest.”

At the sound of your voice he adjusts himself, tucking his teeth into the column of your cervical vertebrae. Indeed, his contributions have earned him more than a nap. One of your tentacles still tingles with the aftereffects of being inside Puppy’s void and it waits vigilantly by his pelvis for any indication of his member’s reappearance. Your tentacles’ surfaces have an adept sense for magic and the ability to taste it. It’d made for quite the experience, feeling him all over, tasting him all over…you’re impatient for a repeat, but his body isn’t ready. His temperature has lowered and no matter how daringly high your tentacle spirals up his femur, he’s unresponsive.

You rearrange the quilts of the nest to shelter Puppy’s form. The little heat he has left is trapped against him, hopefully hastening his recovery. You can’t bear the covers smothering you. You can hardly stand the heaviness of the dress you’re wearing; the only reason you haven’t torn it off entirely is because Sands gave it to you. You decide to drape yourself over the blankets piling on Puppy and rub warmth back into him through the barriers of fabric.

This is how you stay until your soulmate returns. When Sands kicks open the door in a full suit of armor, you assume a defensive stance. The combative garb puts you on edge and you rise onto your feet in a crouch, arching one arm to extend over Puppy’s inactive body. However, your agitation eases as you recognize that he bears no weapon. His arms are inhabited by bulging bags and a large ceramic jar. You have no read on his facial expression as the blue of his eyes is scarcely visible through the slats in his helmet, but his voice is appeasing as he approaches to unload the objects at the edge of the nest.

You monitor him carefully as he lifts the lid of the jar to reveal the viscous gold of honey. He lowers a dipper into it to let it drip temptingly from the wooden slats. You’re convinced—this will make an excellent meal for Puppy. It’s energizing and effortless, if not messy. You reach for the dipper and Sands halts you with a raised finger. He adds something to it, spicing it with a sprinkling of a sparkly powder. Sensing the appetizing volume of magic in the powder’s container, a whip-fast tentacle purloins it from his grasp to absorb the wealth within.

Sands attempts to snatch it back, yelling your name and a slew of cautions which you throw to the wind. He’s not swift enough. Your membranous ecto-flesh contacts the powder and instantly lurches back. Your teeth curl into a snarl and your tongue sticks out before you gag, “ _Blegh_! Vile, venomous—!”

Sands’ skull remains obscured, but you can sense the aura of “ _I Told You So_ ”. His protective metal plating clangs as he lowers himself to his knees in the nest to properly confiscate the container.

“I don’t think so,” you chide, countering his endeavor by extending your appendage out of his reach. When he rises to retrieve it, you drop the powder from one tentacle into the next, juggling it so it’s always out of his grasp. “I won’t allow you to further poison those bees’ syrup with this repulsive seasoning. You’ve done enough to waste their efforts already!”

He matches your stubbornness and as you become more practiced at keeping the disgusting powder from beyond his reach, you begin to predict his movements. In fact, you think if you toss it this way, then down, and lean back…there we go. Sands loses his balance and collapses atop you with a clatter. His legs pin yours and his gauntlets dig into the plushness of the blankets framing your face.

Your arms wind around his gorget. The container is disregarded as your tentacles travel the metal planes of his armor to find weaknesses. His helmet’s visor has fallen away from his eyes and you get enough of a glimpse to glean that the blue glow of his eyelights has conquered new territory on Sands’ cheekbones. As pleased as you are with this new position, you aren’t so swept away that you’ve forgotten that Puppy lays in need of your attention. It’d be nigh impossible to, with his soft snoring not two feet away. Yet, you imagine that there would be no harm in letting him rest for a while longer. You’ll feed him eventually. At the moment, you’re more concerned with feeding yourself. His honey won’t spoil. Sands, on the other hand, you fear will flee at the slightest provocation. You must seize the bounty while it’s in front of you.

Aaand he’s no longer in front of you. “Blast,” you curse at the emptiness above you, sitting up and strangling the fabric of the nest in your fists. That slippery Sands has disappeared again! This time, he’s reappeared across the room and you can hear a certain rattling within his armor as he slides his visor back into place.

Fine. If he’s so keen to run away from you, you’ll have to show him what he’s missing out on. After Puppy’s conscious again, of course. Or you could give him a solo demonstration—No. Puppy comes first. Mm…mostly.

You pointedly ignore Sands as you taste test the powder-corrupted honey. The treat that meets your tongue surpasses your expectations. You deduce the powder’s flavor is pleasant in trace amounts and revolting in excess, much like liquor. Unlike liquor, though, this should invigorate and restore Puppy’s mana. After dragging the jar to sit beside his head, your skeletal hand smooths over the harsh angles of his skull. His sockets stay shut. He half-pronounces gibberish and passively permits you to pry a few phalanges between his mandible and upper jaw.

“Open up,” you instruct in sing-song melody, hovering the honey dipper above his slightly parted teeth. “Here comes the rain!”

You view the amber syrup oozing languorously down to vanish in the inky abyss of Puppy’s maw. It produces a similar satisfaction to dropping a stone down a well, but without the conclusive plop of the rock splashing into the water below. Perhaps you judged the rude traveler too harshly for wanting to watch this. It’s quite pleasing. You repeat the process and as you’re becoming overly accustomed at staring into the hungry darkness, it’s set ablaze with the formation of a sunset orange tongue.

Ahhh, a good sign. His magic is returning. You meet Puppy’s sockets, sluggishly blinking open, as his tongue accommodates your actions. It catches the honey as it seeps into him. He groans gutturally. Optimistic at the sound, one of your tentacles slides beneath the blankets to check for more magic in his lap. Nothing yet, unfortunately. The smooth bones of his pelvis are uninterrupted by any colorful formations. Your adventurous appendage contents itself with lacing the holes of each ischium and wrapping itself around the peak of his pubic arch as you continue to drizzle honey onto his awaiting tongue, which protrudes past his teeth with his needy pants.

The eager noises he emits keep you engaged until Sands interrupts with a faux cough. You turn to him skeptically. He lingers at the nest’s border, surrounded by bowls of lettuce, shredded cheese, and several spices. He’s loaded them onto a flatbread that has staled in the shape of a circular hardcover that’s closed around pages of vegetables and meat. He tries to take it to Puppy, but you don’t allow it. He then tries to give it to you, but you don’t accept it. He huffs in frustration and you mimic Puppy’s lewd expectation, stretching your tongue out, tilting your open mouth to your soulmate’s offering.

He sputters and shoves it into your skull. You’re momentarily distracted from performing sensually as you crunch down on the strange, salty bread. The contrast in textures with the shell and its fillings is…interesting. Must be an acquired taste. One that you have no desire to push on Puppy as, despite what its exceptionally sparkly fillings suggest, it doesn’t restore as much mana as the honey had. Besides, it couldn’t possibly taste as good as _they_ do.

You lick the crumbs from your teeth as your focus returns to the meal baking under the blankets. While you were snacking, Puppy’s sockets slid closed. Orange light no longer leaks from behind his teeth. You hum speculatively. You get some enjoyment in seeing him sleep on, naively unaware of what wonders await him when he rouses, but you’ll be taking much more pleasure from him once he’s awake to give.

Meanwhile, there’s only one who’s willing to give you what you want, and that’s yourself. You stand to face the seraph whose divine magic you’ve yet to seduce from him and set about correcting that. He holds your concentration as you tease the neckline of your bodice, dipping below it to caress your ribs with care. You’re unfamiliar with the sweet spots of your bones, but the heightened sensitivity makes it hard to go wrong. You savor the small glimpses of his longing expression through the slats in his visor.

Your limbs lift your skirts to hang over your hipbones and before your creations can be revealed Sands squeaks and shields his eyes. You grimace but continue. He can hide his eyes if he likes. That’ll only heighten his awareness of his other senses that you intend to fill with scrumptious scents and sounds until he’s sufficiently seduced to your side. Your phalanges frolic in the spokes sprouting from your sternum as your tentacles tentatively toy with your entrances.

You moan as one bumps into the bud above your blossom. The sensation is stimulating yet falls flat, failing to engage the entirety of your sensorium. The flavors of your own magic are as unknowable as the taste of your own saliva or the feel of your own kiss. The impersonable touch will have to suffice until Sands says otherwise or Puppy is provoked from his slumber.

Your tentacles tantalize your slits with slow strokes before all at once lunging inside. Both the penetrating appendages and the sensitive vines surrounding your tunnels alight with the contact. If this were your living body, the suddenness and size of the invasion would’ve hurt terribly, but your new creations are supple, durable. You welcome them in with an overjoyed gasp.

They pump into your pussies with an audible wetness. Your knees wobble and you strangle your sternum as if tightening your grip on it could brace yourself against the devastating stimulus. You fumble onto your back as you lose the ability to support yourself, lost to the tentacles’ frantic rhythm on your insides. The gauntlet cloaking Sands’ visor shifts and trembles. With each of your aroused howls he leans forward, loudly shuffling his metal boots, but he takes only a single step forward.

You persist. Though your tentacles pound away with the speed of a racehorse you make no progress towards your peak. Desperate, your tentacle tips push past the limits of your tunnels, (where the entrance to your womb would be, if you had one), and notices that they don’t end—They abstract. Beyond the translucent purple you plunge into the unknown as you witness your limbs disappear into the cavity of your core, a void unlike the one in your head. The tentacles’ deep plum remains visible inside the flexible colored glass of your walls until it fades into nothingness. Not nothingness, though. Not entirely. It’s invisible but not unfelt as it reaches within.

Inside, there is no breeze to chill the slickness of your tentacles, but still they shiver and constrict in the cavernous void. They blindly seek the heat of your very essence. Once found, they encircle it, cradling it in a plush purple. Your soul embraces the touch and releases its woes. You receive a rush of your own unconscious emotions spilling into your receptive suckers and welling up magic in your sockets.

Your soul is missing its mate. Your soulmate is near, but he’s not _here_. Your heart of hearts is hollow. Solitary. There’s no piece of your love, nor a seedling of a new love growing within you. You cry with the cruelty of it, unable to satiate the infinite emptiness within you. Why? Is your undead existence doomed to eternal unfulfillment? Destined to be forever feared and reviled by all, even the one who was made for you?

Your tentacles retreat from your core in defeat, sadly slipping out of your pussies. Your vision is blurred by violet tears as Sands answers your soul’s lonely call to sit beside you. His helmet is abandoned outside the nest and you read the alarm in his raised browbones as he thumbs the bottom of your sockets.

“How could an embodiment of perfection accept an unnatural creature such as I? Can an angel possibly love a demon? Please,” you hug him tightly to you. Besides the pattering of your teardrops onto his metal armor, the delicate snores of Puppy, and Sands’ harried breathing, there’s silence. “If you can’t explain, Sands, _show me_ ,” you implore, clasping the back of his neck and guiding it closer.

Your teeth meet, nuzzling in a comforting kiss. His intention is multi-faceted. It’s reassuring, caring as your tongues tangle, but aggressive with gall at the concept of you feeling unwanted—he wants to share the debauchery that his desire for you has driven him. You’re dizzy with it as he pulls away.

He sheds his gauntlet and vambrace. This time, you do sense a challenge as he tosses it by your feet. He settles between your legs, hoisting your femurs to hook over his shoulders. You gape at him with anticipation and awe as his phalanges descend on your sensitive lower magic. He thumbs your bud, several fingers delving past your petals to caress your insides. You rejoice under his affections.

“At last, divine interventi—Ah!” You’re cut off as his fist punches its way inside your frontal pussy. The bones of his arm have less give than your tentacles did and their rigidity juts sharply against your walls. You feel the stretch acutely each time they leave and reenter. Best of all is the feeling of _him_. With each thrust of his fist he gets closer and closer to your core. Your soul sings with excitement. “Further, all the way!” you encourage.

He unfurls his fist within you. His phalanges press into your inner sanctum until all but his elbow is buried. The noise that leaves you can only be described as feral. The chasm where your culmination resides applauds his presence, buzzing and beckoning until, finally, he holds you. All of you. He is everywhere, everything, and you can only beg for his mercy.

“My hero, my seraph, I may be corrupted by evil, but I give myself to you! Save my soul, fill me with the divine light!”

“ _Y/N…_ ” his mouth is motionless, but you hear him as clear as day in your mind. “ _You Are Worthy, Not Wicked. Don’t Let Anyone Convince You Otherwise._ ”

You sense his sincerity as intensely as the mind-numbing pleasure as he rubs circles in your heart of hearts, but still, you doubt. You speak from your soul, querying, “ _Can you not see my sins? My unnatural form, my lust and loose morals, my—_ ”

“ _I See You, Y/N. You’re Perfect_ ,” he squeezes your soul and you’re treacherously close to unfolding. “ _Whatever You’ve Done, I Forgive You._ ”

With those words, he sends you to the stars. “Sands! Seraph! _Mercy_!” you scream all his names as you shatter, ecstasy encompassing your entirety. Your tentacles writhe in pleasure and your walls convulse. Your tunnels tighten to hold his hand inside. As your pleasure peaks, he graces you with your soul’s deepest desire, embracing your essence with the divine light. You’re unable to see the green fog that fills your infinite inner abyss, but its grace is unmistakable.

It’s a purifying presence that solidifies what Sands had said—You’re forgiven. You’re worthy. You’re _good_. The healing soothes the smoldering heat of your bones and cushions your landing from the heights of your orgasm. For a brief reprieve, you’re satisfied and make only a small sound of complaint when his arm slides out from you.

You raise your torso from the padded floor and meet Sands’ eyes meaningfully. He appears to be conflicted with himself. You pull him from his thoughts by bringing the back of his hand to your teeth, snuggling the bones that’d held your soul. You whisper your gratitude into his metacarpals, “Thank you, Sands. That was truly divine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Instinctual aftercare is built into heats and you cannot change my mind. Fight me. 
> 
> Sexy Skeader, Sands is strong enough to resist. Sad AND Sexy Skeader? Boi didn’t stand a chance. He had to fuck away those tears ( ͡ಥ ͜ʖ ͡ಥ)
> 
> Author, writing about tentacles penetrating voids and stroking souls: ... Am I even writing a sex scene anymore? Wtf.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note, Horrortale Papyrus will be nicknamed Specs, not Crooks, by the other skeletons in this fic. He already received medical treatment before coming to Skeader's universe. He has glasses and his crooked teeth are fixed with braces, so I figure that name is more appropriate and less mean. I thought about calling him four-eyes but Specs, short for spectacles, sounds cuter I think :3

Blue is at odds with himself; half of him is hollering that he’d gone too far, the other half not far enough. Not nearly far enough. Your soul’s surface was scarred, but soft. It’d spoken to him of your desire to be filled and forgiven for your wickedness. That first wish would’ve been happily granted if your mind was clear. The second was… _is_ …concerning. Blue contemplates what you’d wanted his forgiveness for. Was it for what you’d done to his brother? He’s unsure exactly the methods you employed to drain Pappy of magic thoroughly in under ten minutes, but he’s not envisioning anything innocent.

The mental images that line of thinking produces has him clenching the hand you’re holding and tersely taking it back to tense against his leg. You lean back with worry and he admonishes himself for letting his jealousy upset you. Though he plans on scrupulously lecturing himself in the mirror after this is over (he wanted to wait, to make all your firsts together special and _sober_ instead of sullied by this spontaneous instinct-driven haze), he critically considers the snoozing Stretch to be partially at fault for this.

Neither your fear of unfaithfulness towards him nor his own entitlement to your attention would be as much of a problem if Papyrus revealed his soulmate status to you, Blue thinks to himself huffily. It might be unfair to attribute the entirety of his envy on his brother’s inaction, yet he can’t help but conclude that it would’ve been simpler to share if the necessity of it weren’t so sudden. He’d been your priority, the singular recipient of your devotion, since your initial meeting. Had your nigh-worshipful focus been split between he and Stretch before this situation became strained, it would’ve been easier on all of them.

Plus, if Stretch had been upfront with you from the beginning, then you’d already know Blue wouldn’t blame you for anything you’d done to his brother. How could he? They’re both your soulmates. With this heat lowering your inhibitions, it’s no wonder you’re developing affections for Stretch. You have every right to. But Papyrus hadn’t disclosed that information to you and now you’re condemning yourself for what is completely natural.

Then again, that contrition in your soul ran deeper than what your perception of a ‘spur of the moment magic-grab from my soulmate’s roomie’ would suggest. The profound guilt seemed to stem from something in _you_ , not your actions of the day. That is unacceptable, to Blue. Recognizing you’ve done harm is one thing, labeling yourself as evil for… for _who knows_ what, is super wrong! Have you internalized this world’s monsterphobia? While the humans venerate him and his alternates now, it’d been a different story when they initially arrived. If the humans you were raised with treated you with the open hostility and violence that’d met him at first, he can solemnly understand why you’d see yourself through a filter of fear and distrust.

Understanding doesn’t equal acceptance. Blue will rip away their murky lens to make certain you see yourself clearly for what you are—a beautiful, awesome monster who is capable of so much more than those narrow minds can imagine for you! His vision recovers from its thoughtful vacancy to enthusiastically meet your eyes. The smidgen of uncertainty in your composure as you hover in his orbit, as if a part of you is still anticipating rejection, just bolsters his resolve to show you your worth.

As he shelters you in an affirming hug, squeezing tenderly to not mush you against his metal cuirass, he recalls how he’d been inspired to ‘show you’ earlier. He hides his coloring cheekbones in your shoulder. There are myriad ways to express appreciation and he’d gotten a bit too carried away in the sexual aspect of it. Only…are there many more options? He can gush about how great you are every day, and you won’t understand a word of it. But, if he says it to your soul, daily, especially while it’s still inside…

He gulps. Sans knew you could influence a soul without it being exposed, with gravity magic and the like, but touching it? Accessing it through the channel of your pussy to caress it while it’s home within your mysterious magic core? It’s…it’s just… _damn_. Blue doesn’t approve of foul language, however, in this case, it’s justified. He hadn’t known that kind of intimacy was possible and now that he does it’s unfeasible to stop thinking about it anytime soon. What if, instead of his empty hand reaching within you, he’d held his soul? He’d guide the vulnerable white heart through the silky purple passageway until its point presses into your soul’s arch, pushing you together and intwining your essences. All without your soul leaving your body—not that Blue doesn’t want to see it. He really, really does, but…it’s safer inside. And there’s a sensual kind of secrecy to it being unseen. Like closing his eyes while his body is explored, but better because both of you are blind to it, and instead of just touching, it’s _everything_. He’s never done it before so he can only imagine the ecstasy of becoming one, his culmination and core invisibly mated in a pocket dimension under your command.

Blue is flooded with dangerous desires by his pondering and your proximity. He removes himself from you while he still has the control to. His arm crosses the boundary of the nest to reclaim his abandoned helmet. It sinks onto his skull and he slides his hand into the harsh metal of his gauntlet, wishing it were your soft walls. His armor normally feels powerful and protective. Today, it’s stifling and restrictive. Your intent is blocked by its plating and Sans doesn’t like limiting the already meager methods of communicating with you.

Though, he can’t ignore that a new method has emerged. Speaking to your soul directly obliterated the language barrier between you. But how could that be practical? He can’t be grabbing your soul whenever he has to tell you something! Ah, if only. Maybe he could ask…wait, how’s he supposed to ask properly without touching it again, first?

He groans and lifts himself from the floor to wander to some bare wall he can bang his helmet against. Your tentacles stop him before he can make it three steps. They wrap around his torso and legs and as tightly as they wind the metal is unyielding, he can’t feel their presence. The sight of them is enough to send a shiver down his spine.

“Y/N, Why Do You Have To Make Everything So Hard?” he asks in exasperation, tugging your tentacles to try and release their suction hold on his armor. “I Know It’s Not Your Fault, _I’m_ The One That’s Hard, And—No! I Mean… I’m Glad Stretch Isn’t Awake To Hear That Pun. I Wouldn’t Hear The End Of It.” he gives up on separating himself from you, sitting down in the nest indignantly.

He sighs, “Seriously…You’re Putting Me Through The Wringer, You Know That?” Your only answer is to rest your jaw on his shoulder, bringing your arms around his middle to embrace him from behind. “Well, It’s Lucky I _Like_ Being In Your Wringer. Mweh-heh-heh!”

As if sensing that his brother is engaging in wordplay without him, Stretch rolls over in his ~~grave~~ blanket nest and slurs a sentence that even Blue can’t decipher the meaning of. It draws your attention. You withdraw to inspect him, tentacles prodding him here and there to check for a response. He reacts to the stimulus with a lethargic hum, hands blindly fumbling for the source of the disturbance. When he manages to catch one of them, he hugs it to his chest like he’s a babybones with a stuffed toy. By the wriggling ascend of your captured appendage towards his head, to the amusement written on your face, it’s apparent that Sans should try to stop you before things get out of hand.

When he pounces to remove your troublemaking tentacles from Pappy, you snap at him, opposing his vicinity with a warning growl. “He’s My Baby Brother, I’m Not Going To Hurt Him!” he argues, his hands hovering by his helmet in surrender. He focuses on emanating his well-meaning intentions before remembering that they’re blockaded by his silvery shell. His arms descend as he loses hope that he can manage this. Your body is lowered in a crouch, perpendicular over Papyrus. He lost the limb he’d been snuggling and replaces it with your waist as it hovers conveniently in his range. Your defensive form is foiled by his yank to your middle, causing you to fall unceremoniously across him. Though you’ve dropped, your guard hasn’t, and still you stare with cynicism at Sans’ attempts at interference while Pappy uses you as a pillow. 

An uninvited bubble of resentment floats to the top of Blue’s thoughts as he envisions an alternate universe where Stretch actually wears the armor he’d been given rather than letting it tarnish and rust in storage because ‘it’s heavy’ and ‘how’m i supposed to nap in this?’. In that world, he wouldn’t have made for such easy prey to your womanly wiles! Then they’d both be in possession of the mental facilities necessary to deal with this situation!

Blue shakes his skull at himself. No, that’s entirely unfair. It was impossible for them to have anticipated this and even _he_ wasn’t wearing his armor when he woke up. It could’ve just as easily been him lying there, dazed and dreamy, instead of his brother. And if he’s being honest with himself, that’s what Blue resents the most.

Picking himself off the plush blankets, he paces the room. The ropes didn’t work. Those swift, sneaky tentacles of yours had freed you before Pappy could prevent it. He’ll have to get something else to keep you safely out of action while he studies a way to fix you. Even without Stretch’s scientific mind helping him problem solve, Blue believes he can find a way! But if simple rope wouldn’t be enough, he worries that he’ll need to escalate his efforts to restrain you and employ a different kind of trap. He chews his distals as he considers his options.

Handcuffs? No, even with your arms bound you’d be capable of causing difficulties, and the rigid metal manacles would be useless on your more slippery and flexible appendages.

A cage? Just picturing you behind bars makes his soul ache. He can’t lock you up, even if it would be safer.

What if he made a better kind of cage? One without the unforgiving structure and hard steel. A net could keep you out of commission. As long as they agree to keep their distance from it, you could be comfortably cradled in a nest of your own with no problem. Blue doesn’t know where they’d hang the net from, though. With one of those weighted nets he wouldn’t need to hoist it from anything, but he doesn’t want to keep you trapped against the ground.

Aha! He’ll stuff their biggest bathtub with blankets and then put a weighted net on top, like a breathable lid. That should work. Now where can he find one of those? Ideally, at least one of his alternates should already own a net like that. As a last resort he can ask Ink to make one for him. His first choice is Papyrus. Blue knows that his best friend in this universe enjoys the art of trap-crafting. With any luck, he can loan his out. Sans needs to make a call. Before he can leave, he needs to ensure Stretch and you are safe while he attains the net.

You’ve escaped Pappy’s clinging to straddle him over the covers and you’re…kneading? Your phalanges are rhythmically flexing in the fabric over his ribcage. Your tentacles also participate in this cat-like ritual, their suckered sides squeezing up and down his arms as if they’re bringing warmth back to him after a tumble in the snow. It’s innocent enough, for the moment. Blue has to hurry so he can get back before that changes.

He rushes to the room where his phone rests charging. It stores only 13 contacts, so it’s quick to pick out Papyrus from them and hear from his very cool (if slightly immature) friend. He dials as he speed-walks back to the library.

“BLUE! TO WHAT DO YOU OWE THE PLEASURE OF THIS PHONE CALL WITH THE GREAT PAPYRUS? GASP, IS THIS ABOUT CHEF’S NIGHT? IT’S NOT NORMALLY FOR ANOTHER MONTH AND A HALF. YOUR PREPAREDNESS IN PLANNING EARLY ASTOUNDS ME!” the boisterous skeleton answers amiably. Since he and his brother were the first ones to visit this universe, Ink decided they’d be the ones allowed to keep their names, publicly. Blue isn’t sure he agrees with that decision but is glad that his friend is the one with the privilege and not one of the _others_. 

“HELLO, PAP!” he greets, matching the enthusiasm from across the line. “THANK YOU FOR NOTICING MY STELLAR FORESIGHT AND PREPERATORY TALENTS! UNFORTUNATELY, THIS ISN’T ABOUT OUR CHEF’S NIGHT.”

He crosses the threshold of the library and your kneading is interrupted as you send a wince of disbelief towards his volume. He makes a noise of clearing his throat, abashed, and continues, quieter, “I Need To Borrow Something. Do You Have A Weighted Net? I Need It For—For Reasons.”

“REASONS? THAT SOUNDS VERY IMPORTANT. HOWEVER, I CAN’T HELP. A HUMAN CHEWED THROUGH MY ONLY NET! I FED THEM MY DELICOUS SPAGHETTI BUT THEY MUST’VE STILL BEEN HUNGRY!”

Disappointment slumps his posture, but he manages to keep it from his voice as he answers dismissively, “Oh, That’s Okay.”

“FEAR NOT! AXE AND SPECS MIGHT BE ABLE TO ASSIST. THEY LIVE BY THE COAST AND USE LOTS OF DIFFERENT NETS TO CATCH FISH!!”

“That’s True. I’ll Ask Them. Thanks, Paps.”

“AS A WONDERFUL AND TRUE CONFIDANT, YOU ARE ALWAYS WELCOME. TALK TO YOU LATER!”

“Bye!” Blue cheerily concludes the conversation and hangs up with a sigh. Of course. Nothing is going to come easily today. He’ll have to track down the reclusive pair of alternates. They’re much better company than the wicked ones, which is why Specs is always invited to Chef’s Night, despite his difficulties reading the recipes even with those thick glasses of his. The problem is with their commitment to this world’s ways. They rarely use technology and consequently, getting them to pick up the phone is an event worth celebrating. He calls Axe and gets no response. Specs doesn’t answer, either.

Oh well. Their nets probably stunk of seafood, anyway. Blue wouldn’t want to trap you under a gross slimy sea net! He’ll get you something better. The problem is that he’ll have to go through someone who’s definitely _not_ invited to Chef’s night, because he’s a big bully who doesn’t deserve it! Grumbling to himself and bracing for the worst, he presses a phalange to Razz’s rarely used contact info.

“If It Isn’t My Favorite PEASANT. You’re Interrupting My Extremely Urgent Kingly Duties. Explain Yourself Before I Force The Answers Out Of You, Mwahahaha!” The cartoonishly aggressive voice of the alternate that’s _supposedly_ the most similar to himself (yeah, right) has Blue raising his free hand to pinch his nasal ridge.

He knows Razz is a lost cause but can’t resist correcting that awful and impolite excuse for a ‘hello’. “How Could You Force Me Over The Phone?! And You’re Not A King! You’re Just In Charge Of One Little Human City, Along With Black And Your Brothers!”

“DON’T Remind Me. Ugh. My Co-King Is ALMOST As Bad As You Are. That Stick In The Mud Refuses To Let Me Replace Our Ridiculously Feeble Wooden Throne With One Forged From The Finest Weapons!”

His profuse frustration is obvious. Blue is reluctantly receptive to it, being not a big fan of Black’s. “Well, A Throne Of Weapons Would Be Pretty Cool. Especially If The Hilts Have Jewels In Them And You Hang A Ball And Chain Flail Off Each Side Like Pom-Poms!”

“Mwahah, Yes, EXACTLY! Then Those Brothers Of Ours Can Bat At The Spiky Sphere Like The Lazy Animals They Are As They Lounge At Our Royal Feet! THIS Is Why You Should Forgo That—What Did You Call It? Moral Map?—And Join Me In Showering In The Souls Of The Innocent! We Would Work Well Together If You Weren’t So WEAK.”

And just like that, Razz has lost him again. Blue rolls his eyelights, “It’s Called A Moral Compass And I’m Not Getting Rid Of It. I Don’t _Want_ To Shower With You, Razz.”

“You’d Be Lucky To Be Let Into My Shower! It’s Huge And Has A Bone Cologne Dispenser Built Into It! You’re Not Fooling Anyone, Hanging Around In That Crumbling Tower Of Yours. You Called Your Morals A Compass. HA! You Know Those Are Supposed To Guide You To Where You WANT To Go, Not Keep You Railroaded On Some Silly Ruleset Designed For Making LOSERS Feel Better About Themselves?”

“That’s Enough,” he reprimands in his threatening, older-brotherly manner. Though, to his annoyance, it does little to chasten Razz who continues cackling at him. “I Didn’t Call To Listen To You Explain Compasses Or Brag About Your Bathroom!”

“Why DID You Call, Whelp?”

Here it is. Blue hates having to ask anything of this awful monster, but desperate times call for desperate measures. “I Need A Net. A Heavy, Weighted One That Doesn’t Smell Weird Or Have Sketchy Red Stains On It,” he adds the last condition after reminding himself of Razz’s rough record with the humans he captures.

“I Have MANY Which Fit That Description.”

Blue refuses to feel relieved until he knows, “What Would You Want In Exchange For Loaning One To Me?”

“Hmm, How About…” he gets the sense that Razz is _pretending_ to consider as he pauses for a mere moment before blurting out, “AN INVITATION TO CHEF’S NIGHT!”

The pinch of his distals on his nasal ridge becomes viselike. “I’m Not The Only One In Charge Of It, You’d Have To Get All Three Of Us To Agree In Order To Be Invited! It Wouldn’t Be That Hard If You Learned Your Manners!”

“THAT Is The Ruthless Razz’s Price. If You Can’t Pay It, I Suppose I Will Return To Admiring My Vast Net Collection.”

What happened to those ‘urgent kingly duties’, Blue wonders sardonically. “Fine. I Will Try To Get You An Invitation To Chef’s Night. Now, Can I Come And Pick Up The Net?”

“Mwahahah, I KNEW You’d Comply! Yes, When Should I Expect You?”

“Right Away,” Blue answers honestly, planning on taking another uncharacteristic shortcut to the gates of the Fellswap’s and Swapfell’s palace given the time crunch and the inability to teleport directly into another’s home, courtesy of Ink’s peacekeeping restrictions.

“Really? I’d Thought BETTER Of You, Ruining The Chance To Improve Your Stamina With A Slothful Shortcut!”

The criticism rouses a flood of defensiveness and the hand that isn’t holding the phone moves to his hipbone. “It’s Time-Sensitive. You Wouldn’t Understand, With All That That Free Time Of Yours, Standing Around Staring At Nets!”

“TCH! What’s This Oh So Important Time-Sensitive Business Then? I Haven’t Heard You This Worked Up In A While.” Once his initial blustering fades, it’s clear that Razz is curious, which means nothing good. Besides Red And Rus, Razz would be one of the worst monsters to learn of your existence, or of your _heat_ , stars forbid. Blue combs his mind for a reasonable excuse.

“Uh, Sheep! Someone’s Sheep Was Stolen And I Need To Steal It Back, Right Away! Before They, Um, Eat It!” His nervousness at lying peaks as Razz bursts into malicious laughter.

Thankfully, the cause of Razz’s mirth doesn’t appear to be doubt of the reason’s legitimacy. “How PATHETIC! Getting Up In Arms, Letting Me Come To Chef’s Night, All For Some Dumb Human’s Even DUMBER Pet? Mwahahah! I’ll Meet You At The Gates When I’m Done LAUGHING!!”

Razz hangs up and Blue gradually lowers the phone from his head, allowing himself a moment to calm. He takes a breath. He can survive a short, unpleasant visit to Razz’s palace. He’ll make it back before you can stir up more trouble. Yes, for you, Sans has _so_ got this!

…

…Hopefully.

* * *

_In a realm beyond time and space…_

Stretch is in heaven. Below is a bed of clouds and above is a drizzle of honey. You may wonder how one receives a rain of honey, being on top of the clouds. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t ask questions. The heaviness of thought might make him fall back to earth. He doesn’t want that. The goddess is in the sky, so the sky is where he’ll stay.

The moon goddess created this world. He has everything he needs here. Why would he worry? The clouds are cozy, the air is sweet, and honey falls into his mouth. He heeded his brother’s voice from the distance, telling him that it’s been ten minutes, that he’s done something he shouldn’t’ve. Yet, that’s impossible. It’s been much more than ten minutes. An eternity. And for that eternity, he hasn’t done _anything_ but open himself up to the goddess’s loving arms.

The goddess has many, many arms. Arms that leave electric trails of lust like lightning on his bones and keep him caught in the clouds, so he doesn’t fall. Those arms take good care of him. They play in the plains of his pelvis and pamper him with their benevolent touch. The affection isn’t purposeless. The goddess has motives. He feels your intent to ready him, to inspire an outpouring that will douse the sunbaked soil and allow you to create new life.

He wants to provide for his parched goddess, but he is just a little cloud. Floating. If he were to give more of himself, there’d be nothing left. He drifts in the dark sky, determined not to dissipate. He doesn’t fear when he hears the thunder of your growl or the storms of your sobs.

You always return to him. And when you’re away, you’re helping his brother come to heaven, too. He has this knowledge and your songs to comfort him. Wordless hymns that match the rhythm of the tides beneath.

But when your comforting weight disappears from above him and your fury is followed by vacancy…he shivers. Where are you? He’s cold and the distant tempest of enraged words exchanged makes him restless. His sockets gradually open to receive brightness.

The infinite expanse of space is not what greets him. He’s enclosed. It’s neither day nor night. A warm, temperate light bares a busily colorful room. By the leadenness of his limbs when he tries to sit up, he gathers that his thoughts have dragged him back to earth. He mourns. He is no longer subject only to the breeze and the beautiful goddess. He’s fallen. Hopelessness makes him heavier and he wanders into dreary dreams of an empty heaven.

When he next wakes, it’s to the sound of a waterfall. His bed of blankets has been relocated to the bathroom where Sans stands beside a claw-footed tub to monitor the temperature of roaring water springing from the spout. “This Should Help Cool You Down,” he coos, and Stretch must’ve vocalized his confusion because Blue turns to him, tone becoming brittle as he queries, “Have You Come Back To Your Senses?”

Papyrus blinks owlishly at the scene before him. Waves splash against porcelain as your horns rise from the boundary of the bath, below a shroud of black netting. You’re certainly no longer the size of the sky if Sans has managed to trap you in a tub. “why is the goddess so small?” he marvels, befuddled, as he haphazardly attempts to raise his head to investigate further.

Blue exhales, “That’s A No, Then. Go Back To Sleep.”

“but, why…” he manages to prop his back against the wall. Inside the ceramic cave you’ve dipped beneath the rising water. You moan musically with relief. You’ve sunk just beneath the surface and your dress is drenched. It’s an eerie image, the pale moonbeams of your hair floating limply around your submerged skull, sockets open but unlit, all framed by the black diamonds of the web locking you away.

“The Cold Calms Her Heat,” Blue explains, patting the fat book at his side. “With Any Luck, She’ll Fall Asleep And Recover Swiftly. Can You Feed Yourself?”

Can he? Stretch shakily extends his arms to the jar by his bedside and with great effort, lifts the lip of the ceramic to his teeth and guzzles several gallons of honey. It’s an invigorating and slovenly process. He catches clumps of honeycomb to chew the wax as strings of syrup miss his teeth to harden his hoodie with sticky stains. When the container is empty except for the stubborn bits on the sides, he drops it to the ground with a hollow thunk and meets his brother’s astonished expression.

“That Was Disgusting To Witness And I Feel Gross For Having Enabled It,” Blue quips wearily, fetching a towel from the cupboard to dab at the mess. “But It _Should_ Do The Trick To Get You Feeling Better. Do You Need Any More?”

“nah,” he concludes aloud, his skull drooping to rest on his shoulder. His brother gingerly guides his shoulders to lay horizontally, though his long legs need to be tucked against him to avoid hitting the walls.

“Sweet Dreams, Pappy.” His dreams are of merskeletons swimming in underwater hives of honey. They are immediately forgotten when he rouses to a splash of icy water hitting his skull.

He sits up, shocked, and sees your smug smile sitting atop the folded arms hanging from the side of the tub. The perpetrating appendage is glistening wetly, waving at him from where it’s snuck through a gap in the net. It beckons, luring him closer as you call, “Puppy, Puppy…”

Stretch tries to collect his bearings. He wipes the water off his face with a blanket and looks around. There is no window in the room, he has no sense of how much time has passed, and Blue is nowhere to be found. He blushes as he examines your restraints. They seem to be holding up, allowing you limited movement within and just above the tub, where the edges of the net are tucked under its clawed feet. The wetness of your dress makes it cling tightly to your bones. He stumbles closer, but not too close, to where you’re serenely soaking in the freezing water. “um, y/n? what’s up?”

You respond in your unintelligible human-speak, chatting away with him as he dawdles towards the edge of the tub. You seem better. Less desperate and aggressive compared to… _before_. He can’t even think about ‘before’ without his blush broadening. Thought you’ve shown improvement, Stretch notices your eyelights lingering on the visible signs of his freshly recovered magic. You lick your teeth. Your gibberish slows, distracted, preceding the lunge of a tentacle towards his cheekbone. 

He dodges, jerking out of the way in the nick of time. The door bursts opens and Blue enters, carrying a large stack of novels, announcing, “I’ve Brought More Books! This One’s About—Oh. You’re Up.”

“i’m up,” he confirms, sheepishly scratching the back of his spine.

“ _Advanced Puzzle Construction For Critical Minds_ Will Have To Wait!” Sans seems relieved as he sets the pile of books down on a dry corner of floor. His armor has been replaced with a raincoat and Stretch is well-acquainted with why that might be a good idea. “You Slept For Days. I Was Worried Sick. How Are You Feeling?”

Days? That’d explain the stiffness in between every bone. “like my skull’s stuffed with cotton balls.”

“I’d Ask About Your Magic, But It’s Written All Over Your Face.” Stretch scrunches his browbones in perplexity until registering that he’s still blushing, because of you.

He guffaws, “wha—bro, i didn’t know you had it in you.”

“I’ve Learned Y/N Is A Great Audience For Wordplay. She Doesn’t Insist On Reusing The Same Five Bone Puns, Like _Some_ Skeletons.”

“hm. you don’t understand what she’s saying. it could be bone puns, for all you know.”

“Mweh, Don’t Slander Our Soulmate! Speaking Of…” he doesn’t like the sudden gravity of Sans’ expression as he asks, “When Are You Going To Tell Her? Unless She Already Saw Her Name On Your Ribs When She—”

“no. my clothes stayed on,” he saves his brother the trouble of recounting his tangle with you, placating Blue somewhat as he carries on, “and i want to tell her after i—after things are set right, with the humans.”

“That Makes Sense. Will You Be Ready To Pass Judgement When We Go To The City? We’ll Leave As Soon As She’s Fully Recovered. Her Sheep Is Waiting, Afterall.”

“horse,” he corrects half-heartedly, “and that’s actually something i’d like to talk to you about. a kid you saved. the black-haired one with the real bad infection. he’s the one in charge of all their weird worship stuff now and he never physically hurt y/n, but…it seems like he orchestrated it. catching her, and all that.”

“The One With The Big Eyes? He Was The One To…Oh.” By the disappointment dawning in Blue’s countenance, Stretch can imagine he’s having a hard time believing that the boy was capable of such harm.

“yeah. like i said, he didn’t injure y/n—only one of them did directly and trust me, i know exactly how to deal with her—he betrayed y/n. took her in and then tied her up. he’s young but i don’t think he’s dumb. i’ll relieve him of his title but beyond that…” his head tilts to the floor in reflection. “it’s not bad enough to sentence him to sans’ experiments. it’s not innocent enough to deserve a slap on the wrist. what do you think i should do?”

“Keep In Mind That I Haven’t Had Much Sleep Over The Past Two Days, But I Suggest You Consider _Why_ We Punish People. It’s Preventative. The Sentence Should Deter Future Criminal Behavior While, Ideally, Teaching The Offender The Reason What They Did Was Wrong. Does The Boy Already Regret His Actions?”

He shrugs. He hasn’t viewed the footage from after your entrapment, but Blue has a point. If the humans are already punishing themselves with guilt that’s one thing. If they’re entirely unrepentant, that’s another. “i’ll find out.”

“Yes, Good. Find Out. But First, You’re Going To Keep Watch On Y/N.” Blue wiggles out of his raincoat and slides it over Stretch’s shoulders, “And I’m Going To Bed.”

Sans straightens the sleeves (they’re too short on him, only coming down to mid-radius) and gives a few sporting pats to his arm. “She Sleeps With Her Sockets Open. Don’t Assume She’s Unconscious When Her Eyelights Are Out. Learned That The Hard Way,” Blue coaches tiredly, “Her Body Will Raise The Temperature Of The Water Within Ninety Minutes. Change It Out That Often And Add A Few Sprinkles Of Concentrated Magic Powder To The Cold Water. Raising The Level Of Ambient Magic In The Water She’s Breathing Is Easier Than Feeding Her, But She May Try To Steal The Container. Got It?”

The rush of information is a bit much for his recently awakened mind, but he gets the gist. “every ninety minutes, a few sprinkles, yup, got it.”

Blue nods vaguely and points a phalange at Stretch, “You, Be Careful. I Don’t Want To Find You Drained Of Magic Again.” He turns to you, idly watching them from the lip of the tub, and warns, “And You, _Behave_.”

You smirk when confronted with that wagging finger and Stretch loses confidence in the net’s ability to keep you out of trouble. “any advice?”

“Yes,” Blue stops part-way through the open door to answer, “You’re In The Splash Zone, So Keep The Kraken Happy. Good Luck.”

You’re straining against the net to watch Sans leave, your smirk dissolving. The door is shut and Stretch is once again alone with you, feeling only marginally more prepared than the last time. He chuckles nervously. “well, what’s kraken?”

He’s not sure he agrees with Blue that you’re a good audience for wordplay. You neither giggle nor groan, stoically listening to his language-based joke with mild interest. “must’ve not been very funny. you aren’t kraken up.”

This time, he’s rewarded with another face full of frigid water. He blinks the fluid out of his sockets and brushes off the raincoat. “ok. that was fair. sans brought books, is that what you wanted? reading time?” He floats the top of the book stack into his waiting hand and wiggles it temptingly.

You perk up, the bathwater sloshing with your change in posture. “a true scholar. no more nonsense for you, then,” he sits back into his blanket bed and begins, “quantum entanglement for dummies, chapter one…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skeader, masturbating sadly: forgive plez  
> Sands, instantly: Yes, Of Course!  
> Sands, three minutes later, his two horny, magical brain cells colliding to realize he has no idea what you wanted forgiveness for: …Hold Up
> 
> Hey, if you got fucked out of your mind by Skeader you’d have good fever dreams, too. This won’t be the last time Skeader gets called a goddess. Might not be the last time you get called a kraken, either XD


	12. Chapter 12

The frigid bathwater numbs the distracting oversensitivity of your bones. Regrettably, alleviation from distraction does nothing to transform Puppy’s assuasive gibberish into sense as he reads from another of his tomes. This one is less tolerable than usual, containing a complexity of long words. Its sparse illustrations only serve to confuse you further. Circles and spheres. Sometimes hexagons chained together with lines, if you’re unlucky. You have no idea what could warrant the enthusiasm elicited in Puppy when he points out each figure to you, as if the abstract imagery could produce anything but additional frustration.

With the uneasy energy of a caged tiger, your tentacles twitch tighter in their grip on the net above and your phalanges pick at its unreasonably sturdy fibers. Trapped and tortured by your own inability to escape; the only external stimulation you’re liable to receive is of the intellectual variety. Its worth is equal to its utility against your captors and this hogwash offers nothing in this regard. You dunk your skull beneath the surface and allow mouthfuls of water to rush into your void. The influx of energy that accompanies the liquid is refreshing. Underwater, the book’s nonsense becomes even more garbled. Its ambiance is pleasant once you give up on deciphering it. You allow Puppy’s reading to become background noise as you remind yourself that your struggles are not without progress.

Since Sands sentenced you to captivity, you have been unable to attain more magic, besides the bland bathwater variety. With your tentacles tethered to your tailbone, attached to the rest of your skeleton stuck inside this damned net, your means of reaching the males are limited to words and water.

The water works well to get their attention, though their names suffice for that end. A good splash is best reserved for when one of them strays from their instruction and starts making a face.

On Puppy, it’s the face of a jester who’s overly proud of his craft. You can’t stand the sight. He earns himself a splashing, snickering to himself when he stops reading to recite whatever jape he deigns remark about your situation. He’s got gall, laughing away while you’re restrained and unarmed with the language necessary to counter his tomfoolery.

On Sands, it’s that worrying of a wife who awaits widowry that must be wiped away whenever you see it. While Puppy recovered, your soulmate’s gaze would wander from the fables he was sharing to Puppy’s slumbering form, losing his theatrical momentum to a futile fretting. It’s when you’d sense you’re losing him, to somberness or to sleep, that you’d snap him out of it with a splash.

It was only this morning (you think it was morning, you have no sense of the day’s passing) that words began to serve you half as well as water has. Once Sands switched off after the recovered Puppy’s first watch, he’d began lessons. Numbers, to begin with, your learning greatly aided by the presence of drawn visual cues. You can already count to a dozen. In sequence, at least. Remembering them as individual values is tricky, their symbols slippery. Still, both you and Sands had been heartened by your advancement as he moved on to colors.

You’d gathered that your soulmate viscerally dislikes the colors red and black. He’d done his darnedest to make you hate them too, as he’d taught you to label the ruby hue of Carnage’s attire and eyelights with emphatic disdain. You’d been unsuccessful in discovering his favorite color, but by the process of elimination you’d narrowed it down somewhat. One of the prime candidates is the color that’d come in handy hours ago when the unsuspecting Puppy once again replaced Sands in his role as jailer and storyteller. You’d made the symbol for eating, pointing at Puppy as he’d tilted his head at you.

“Ornge,” you’d specified, rousing a raised browbone until your continued insistence had him vanishing and swiftly reappearing with a fruit of the aforementioned color. He floated it to you over the tub and his telekinesis releases the ripe fruit into your awaiting hands. The display heightens your hunger for his ample powers, but that was not what you wanted. You drop it to _plunk_ in the water and gesture from his tongue down to his pelvis. “Ornge!”

It took some dedicated parroting of your limited lexicon to nail the message across, but once it’s hammered in, it was worth it. The blushing of clementine and sudden shyness meant your new words reached him. You’d been able to speak to him of your desires, however simplistically, and though it hadn’t seduced him to free you from the net prison nor join you inside of it, it was progress.

Rising from the water until your horns catch on the net, you redouble your efforts to listen. From Puppy’s commitment to the subject despite several splashings, it must be important, according to him. Though it seems hardly likely that you’ll glean anything relevant, considering you’re unsure of even the broadest category of what you’re supposed to be learning. Perhaps you’ve reached the limits of your progress today. But what is left for you, if not learning? Lounging in the tub until you burn out? An unappealing option. Your will won’t allow it. There’s a steel in your soul that the most fiery of frustration cannot melt away.

And yet, you feel that will withering. The surplus of heat shielding your bones gives way. The icy cold claws you, stinging past the surface until it sinks inside your very center. Your magic flickers and melts into nothing, leaving your sight and sockets dark. Accustomed to the now absent appendages that braced you in the bath, you clumsily curl up, attempting to trap whatever remains of your warmth, but failing.

“What happened?” you inquire, weak voice barely overpowering the sloshing of the displaced water. “...Puppy? Sands? Where...” You feel as if you’ve woken from a passionate and terrible nightmare in the darkness of night, but the seriousness of your state forces you to confront your reality. _What happened_ was you’d transformed into a tentacled abomination, done _unspeakable_ things to Puppy, and attempted to force the same fate on your seraph, until he’d rightfully restrained you. And you seem to remember he’d accessed your soul, somehow. Spoke to it, tried to heal it, to banish whatever evil had overtaken you. It was unsuccessful, spiritually, at least, as you recall the immense pleasure from his interference.

There’s a weightlessness as the bath is levitated with you in it. The damp net is pushed onto the ground and you’re raised from the water. The cold doesn’t leave you, your drenched dress dripping onto the stone floor as you’re carried in (presumably) Puppy’s arm’s. You’re nervously nestled against a ribcage as he calls for Sands. You’re dead weight. Your limbs are leaden, as frozen as your efforts, unable to exert yourself enough to bring back your eyelights.

Your consciousness continues dimly making sense of your situation. The superstitious citizens had been right to suspect the undead as vessels for fiendish spirits. You begin to believe a demon _could_ bypass its banishment, escaping the underworld by making its infernal home in your soul’s shell...There’s no other explanation—You’d been possessed. You hadn’t thought it was possible, but the impossible is becoming more and more commonplace. Some sort of _sex demon_ snuck into your soul and supplanted your spirit with its own, stealing away your vitality with its departure. What had caused you to fall victim to a demon’s puppeting? A failure of character or an unavoidable imperfection of your unnatural condition?

Regardless, you’re wretched with regret. Your skull is cradled by Puppy’s carpals as your body bobs with his hurried steps. Your bones are dulled to all sensation but his warm touch. He’s worried and wants to know you’re okay. Unfortunately, you are far from adequacy. You’ve done wrong. You _feel_ wrong. Even if most of your wrongs weren’t _you_ , necessarily, the demon is not responsible for your misjudgment of Puppy. Hypocritically, the lecherousness you accused him of had been exhibited in extreme by none other than you, and though the wicked spirit possessing you attempted tirelessly to agitate his arousal, he did not take advantage of you. He’d fought the debauched demon better than you had and for that, he has your respect and repentance.

“I am sorry, Puppy. You’re not the charlatan I assumed,” you explain feebly, hoping the meaning of your words radiate through his hold on your head. He’d been pursued with a ferocity that feels foreign to you now, but you can recall clearly the otherworldly depth of lust that’d sprung from your soul-shell, the bottomless well of thirst that’d threatened to swallow the skeletons you’ve found companionship in. That thirst, the desire to devour their magic, the manifestations of their spirit...it’s unmistakably demonic. You have no doubt that if you’d been able to access their souls the way Sands had yours, you’d have consumed them. Doomed them to the fires of the underworld, leaving Puppy a hollow husk who’d’ve never known the bliss of unification. It is uncertain whether a seraph’s soul would ever be susceptible to such a fate. In any case, it’s undeniable that the wisest course of action would’ve been splitting the soul-shell that shelters the evil spirit and thereby ending its influence on the middleworld (and your un-life). “You’d risked damnation. For a necromancer. For an undead. For _me_. I am grateful for your foolhardiness, for I owe it a great deal.”

They’d not only spared you, but served you. Preserved you until the danger you’d posed passed. You thank the stars that Sands and Puppy had the power to resist the influence that had overcome you. You’re not sure you could carry on if you’d become the vessel for the force that carried out their destruction. Not only death, but damnation as well…

Will the demon return? Will they escape so unscathed, next time? Drifting down a dark future, you’re relievedly brought back to the present with Sands’ voice. He’s here. Close, now, holding your limp hand in his. Soon, you’re lowered onto a soft surface, a puffy pillow beneath your skull. It dampens by the moisture supersaturating your clothing. A debate bounces between the other skeletons. Their words are tense but lacking in maliciousness. The argument concludes with the layering of covers over you and two pairs of hesitant hands peeling away the cold fabric clinging uncomfortably to the crevices of your bones beneath the blanket. When the dress is off and away, you manage to move onto your side, sighing and hugging yourself.

Once, you may have been afraid at being blind and in bed with these sentient skeletons undressing you, but recent events have taught you to trust their intentions. If they’d intended to have their way with you without regard for your wants, they’d already had opportunity to do so. They’re trying to help. Even if their apologetic sorrow couldn’t be sensed from their short touches, the sheet affords you privacy which is rendered superfluous since the more sexual of your summoned parts vanished with the rest. As your bare bones begin to thaw inside the blankets, you wonder if that ability had been demonic in origin or a latent talent that the unholy influence had made manifest. Since Puppy seemed to share the skill, alongside his strange spatial manipulation and telekinesis, you’re leaning towards the latter. The excitement of this power’s possibilities is lost to you in your depleted status. When your vitality returns, the idea should be explored.

 _If_ , your vitality returns, that is. Miserable as you are, you face the fearful prospect that the demon’s theft of your mana may be irreversible. Your will might have been forced far enough away that it will never find its way back to what it was. Remembering Puppy’s recovery comforts you, but not completely. He’d been depleted differently. The external manifestations of his energy had been absorbed into the demon through you, while the corrupting influence drained you from inside your soul. You’ve never felt so wilted. A seedling of strength remains, hoping for the healing of time or divinity, but you’re weary from within. You submit to the overwhelming fatigue, slipping into a profound slumber.

…

A sound. Sands hums a troubled lullaby as he gently nudges open your jaws with a spoon full of stew. Tasteless without your tongue, the temperature of freshly-cooked food is welcomed into your wintry void.

Sleep.

A sensation, the softness of a shirt slipping over your torso. The soothing solidity of a skeleton on either side of you, separate by a single inch, a simple boundary that the extension of your arms can solve. Warmth, of the soul and your bones’ surface, as an endearingly delicate scratching of your skull is paired with the consistent stroking of your spine over the smoothness of silk. The touches tell of safety.

Silence. Deep dreams of things forbidden and forgotten. An unemptying hourglass. A bloody sea of sand. Dunes larger than mountains. The endless crimson is kept at bay by skin. Supple yet stalwart, it shivers and shifts with the pulsing of a thousand hearts. Strong and full. Too much so. It begs to be bled, for the skin to be sliced, seeping a stream of rubies into the stars. But the wound would not heal. It fountains, flooding the earth. The world drowns. Not dead, but disappearing, changing...until as the blood soaks the soil, it turns to stone. A sculpture. Beautiful and stagnant. The hourglass tips to its side, shattering.

Sight. Your sockets reignite. You sit up suddenly, startling the skeletons at your bedside. Your head spins as you take in your surroundings. Puppy occupies an armchair in the corner of the room, smoke (or is it steam?) billowing from his breath. He stands, receiving your dazed scrutiny with intense involvement, leaving his book behind as he steps to your side. Sands is already there, sitting with folded legs on the large bed. He speaks your name, cupping your shoulder and asking you an unknown question.

You stare into the azure of his eyelights, spine slumping as you battle the temptation to slink back into the pillows and rest. Sands’ hand leaves you to rummage through the tomes cluttering the room. It seems they’d brought half the library’s contents with them. He finds a blank page and draws the numerical symbols you’d studied while under possession, stopping just shy of a dozen. By the first, an oversimplified expression of sadness and anguish is added. In sequence, the faces become less bleak and by the final number, they are smiling widely. His phalanges tap his rib cage and then the second to last symbol, smiling boldly but not as manically as the end option. Puppy joins in, pointing to himself and then the somewhat satisfied looking seventh expression.

You nod in understanding—they want to know how you’re feeling. You gesture between yourself and the frown that most closely encapsulates your tiredness but lack of acute discomfort. “Four,” you repeat the sounds you’d associated with that symbol, the pointy one.

Sands’ excitement dims, though the distraught turbulence is not directed towards you as he glumly retrieves a bowl of soup from the bedside table. He stirs it hastily and holds out a ladle brimming with creamy broth to your mouth. You shakily lean your skull forward to accept it. Each bite heats you up from the inside. Halfway through the meal, your tongue returns, allowing you to taste it. It’s scrumptious. Rib-sticking, as some would say. You are monitored carefully as you eat, though not in the way you’re used to. Their concern is for your safety, not theirs. It’s touching. You haven’t been cared for this way since the last time you’d fallen ill with your mage company. Their selfless tending surpasses the expectation of common dignity. So very sweet. It makes you want to weep with joy, but your sockets stay dry.

When the bowl is empty, Sands sets it aside and presses his carpals against your crown, feeling your forehead as one would for a fever stricken child. It appears your temperature satisfies his expectations as his mood lifts slightly. He pulls you into a hug. Over his shoulder you meet eyes with Puppy, who turns away to take another puff of what must be a pipe. When he becomes emboldened enough to look back at you, you smile. He seems stricken, perplexed.

You laugh softly, “It’s just a simple smile, silly one. Don’t look at me like I’ve given you a riddle.” Stars above. Can’t shake hands, won’t return a grin. You suspect that Puppy must’ve died from gravely offending the wrong person with his utter lack of diplomacy. Surprised by your amusement, Sands separates to inspect you. He and Puppy speak amongst each other. Your soulmate is encouraging, the other skeleton skeptical and then silent, tentatively taking a seat on the edge of the bed. His vision is on his hands, occupying themselves with idle thumbing and picking at loose threads.

“Sit still and stop fussing or soon there’ll be nothing of your beloved coat but a tangle of strings,” you scold. Puppy, of course, does not heed your advice. You sigh and seize his wrists, stopping the damage he’d been doing to the cloth. His skull jolts up. There’s a light dusting of orange across his cheekbones. Despite yourself, you remember what he tastes like. You release his wrists and look down, ashamed. _How could you?_ Your entire life you’d saved yourself for your soulmate only to die, come back, meet him, and then almost immediately throw yourself at another man. You _harlot_. How can Sands bare to even look at you?

Then you remember. He’d forgiven you. Everything you’ve done, he knows it and still, he cares for you. The thought warms you more than the soup and blankets could ever hope to.

The next time you wake, your will is back what it used to be. Better, perhaps, though you resolve to quell the craving for more power than you have. If you had to guess, it was your avarice in pursuing more magic that inspired that evil influence to overtake you. That was the last native feeling you remember, before the haze of lust set in.

You dress in a modest gown of lace and lightly colored fabric. This time with undergarments, provided by a bashful Sands. Once you’d been stable enough to stand unassisted, he’d shown you the old outline of your plans prior to possession. Thankfully, it needed no changing. There was no missed deadline. Dusty is dead and shall remain so until you find her again. She isn’t waiting or suffering in the meantime, but you do irrationally worry that Beckett may ail you from afar by grinding her bones to an unusable dust. What he would gain from doing so is unknown, yet that doesn’t keep you from absently worrying about it.

So when Sands outstretches his arm, you subdue your reluctance at facing Aysgarth again and lock your elbow with his. Instead of being led through the labyrinth as you’d expected, you’re instantaneously transported to the city square. It’s loud with uncountable conversations and jeering in the distance. The sun is not yet at its peak, but the public is bustling. Sands is still beside you, grinning as you overcome your shock. The season is at its most temperate. You realize how much you’ve missed being outside just as you realize how much you _haven’t_ missed being around large groups of people, their eyes naturally gravitating towards your odd little group. However, their attention doesn’t hover to study your strangeness. They gawk momentarily and turn back to the gathering crowd. You’re curious as to what spectacle could surpass two skeletons suddenly appearing in the square. The mass of people obstructs your view, but it graciously parts to allow you and Sands to follow the commotion into a small circle of space surrounding a pillory.

You don’t think it was there the last time you were here. You would’ve remembered it, the blue bones making up its construction casting a sickly light over its occupant—none other than Gregor. Soon after you see him, he sees you, shouting, “Y/n! I beg you! Tell Mercy I meant no harm!”

Puppy stands at the pillory overseeing the punishment, grim as an executioner. No, this is not Puppy. Puppy is tactless and timid. This is Justice, and there’s an ember of orange in his socket as he leans on an overly large bone, surveying his prisoner with detached contempt. The sight sends a shiver down your spine. Once he spots you, he shifts back to his other self, skull tilting and his posture straightening as he scratches the back of his cervical vertebrae. Gregor capitalizes on his hesitance, continuing to beg, “I did wrong by holding you captive. I believed Beckett when he’d said you’d gain us the gods’ favor. I treated you as an offering. A gift. That was my fault. I should have known that Mercy’s bride would be much more than that. You’re a goddess. I deserve this, and more, for daring to lay a hand on you. I know that now.”

An apology for the wrong reasons is scarcely better than no apology at all. You scoff, “You know nothing, Gregor. Tell my soulmate that you meant no harm? That would be a lie, I think. Is an injury not an ill if it’s inflicted on a human, rather than a god? Or have you forgone your natural empathy for these skeletons’ favor, fickle as it is?”

“I have not forgotten kindness, my lady. If I had I would already be free from the haunting of my mistakes. I will not deny Justice. I have earned my place here. I only ask for Mercy, that I may move forward from this regret. Please. Share my pleas with your husband, that I may receive rest from my regrets.”

You spit in his ugly, old face. “ _That_ is all you will get from me, scoundrel!” Sands and Justice tensely observe the exchange and with that show of scorn, the latter relaxes somewhat. You nod at him, approving his handling of this cur. He holds the staff-like bone in the air and slams it onto the stone of the square. At that, the crowd agitates, becoming a mob, set on disrespecting the man who Justice decides deserves it. Many hold baskets of rotten food, others handfuls of mud, but everyone with a good arm and clear sight throws a stinking wad of whatever available at their target. You are glad that Gregor has the ability to smell and you don’t as he flinches away from the assuredly rancid projectiles. You take your fill of his suffering. You request an overripe potato from another onlooker and pelt it at Gregor’s head.

Empowered by catharsis, you are unflinching as you pull Sands along to the temple. Facing Beckett no longer balks you. Sands has your back and so does Puppy, it seems. You wonder how he knew who was responsible for your entrapment. Was Gregor right about those ‘kamerahs’? Were your ‘gods’ watching that night through their glass eyes? Was this coincidence...or can Justice really read the souls of the guilty?

For the time being you assume it’s happenstance as you encounter Beckett, business as usual, towards the back of the temple’s expansive central chamber. Your progress is slowed by worshipers intercepting your soulmate with their prayers of health and happiness. You humor them, but keep your gaze pinned to the robed, raven-haired rascal across the room. By the time you reach him, he’s anticipating you with unearned casualness. “Y/n. You’ve returned. How was the land of the gods?”

Urgh, you could strangle him. Your fist curls at your side and you sneer, “Any place you’re not is paradise to me. Spare me the pleasantries and tell me what has become of Dusty!”

“Dusty?” His tone is less nonchalant now that he’s confronted with your anger.

“My horse. Her bones are in my bags, along with my gold and all that I possess. You did not spare a second to send it off with me, so I have returned to amend your selfishness.”

He taps his chin. “Surely any and all that you’ve lost has been replaced by the gods’ grace. Their wealth in material and knowledge cannot compare to the measly means you left here.”

You slap him. Sands gasps at the sound of your bones colliding with cruelly with skin. Beckett’s brows furrow, hand clutching the cheek that’d cushioned your blow. When you next see Justice you’ll do your best to convince him to make a pillory for Beckett. Until then, you swallow the worst of your urges. “Where?!” you demand.

He directs you to a storage chest in some study. You rush to it, dragging Sands close behind, and open the container to blissfully reunite with your lost things. First, you confirm that Dusty is indeed here. The leather bag you’d left her in rattles when you lift it. Peering inside, there’s more bones than you can count so you assume she’s all there. You sigh in relief. Next, you retrieve your resurrection necklace. It has no practical use any longer, yet the weight of its silver rests comfortingly against your breastbone. It’s good to have it back.

The rest is secondary. A knife, flint, bag of coin, objects of utility but no sentimental value. You decide to abandon your old cloak. The clothing Sands has given you is better and there is no reason for you to hide behind fabric any longer. Throwing one bag over your shoulder, the other is held in your arms until you pass into the hallway. Then you can no longer wait to reunite with your beloved steed.

You dump her bones to clatter onto the stone floor. “Y/n?” Sands steals your focus away, speaking curiously as he examines your necklace and the pile of equine bones. You realize you haven’t practiced much magic around him, besides the meager moths and the craft a demon had worked through you. You’re excited to exercise your strengthened mana, and admittedly, to show off for your soulmate. Your abilities' origins might be evil, but their usefulness you take a measure of pride in.

With a lick of your teeth, you concentrate your will on summoning Dusty’s spirit into the shattered remnants of her soul’s shell, held together by your magic. It takes a hearty sum of mana but hardly dents your stores. Her bones float into place. Unlike other times, she bares consciousness and her skull sways to take in her surroundings. Her hooves clack as she shuffles uneasily. For the first time, you hear her voice. She whinnies. It echoes in the long hall and you laugh with delight.

“Dusty, it’s Y/n! Do you remember me?” You outstretch your hand, hoping to calm her. Gradually, she becomes comfortable and permits you to rub her skull between her sockets. In hindsight, this may have been easier outside. No matter. You climb aboard her back and smile down at Sands, who you happily note seems impressed, his eyelights large as you lower a hand to help him up. He’s unsure as he clumsily straddles Dusty’s spine. “Never ridden an undead horse before? No fear. It’s easy. My magic tells her where to go. You need only stay close.”

You guide his hands around your waist. Once you’re assured he won’t fall off, you will Dusty forward. She trots noisily down the halls. Oh how you’ve missed this. Not just having a horse—having control over where you go. Being at the tower wasn’t bad by any means, but you never chose to be there and you couldn’t choose to leave without risking the maze’s dangers. This is better. You can return on your own terms, when you’re ready. Not yet. You’ve yet to acquire a suitable favor for your soulmate. Despite the scandalous intimacy that occurred during your possession, your courtship is not yet completed. That won’t do.

Dusty begins to gallop. Her will is restored but not removed from your own. They’re intertwined and as your eagerness grows, so does her swiftness. Soon you encounter a closed doorway at the end of the hall. Sands expresses hesitation. You don’t. Neither does Dusty. You know your strength. You lean closer to wrap your arms about her bony neck and urge him, “Hold tight!”

He braces himself, pressing into your back, prior to Dusty’s skull ramming down the door. You duck under the doorway and revel in the sound of wood splintering. The destruction of this cursed place brings you satisfaction. Her pace is forced to slow as you reach the main chamber. It’s brimming with people. It takes much maneuvering to journey to this crowd’s core, but when you arrive you are not disappointed. It seems Beckett has finally met Justice.

The punishment is not immediately apparent. You witness Puppy bequeathing a necklace of bone to Beckett. By the recipient’s grave expression, you gather that this is not a benign gift. Turning to the nearest bystander you ask, “What does it mean?”

“It’s the Bones of Banishment. Beckett’ll wear them to his grave. Anywhere he goes, if they know The Truth he’ll lose his head. He has until sundown to leave and never come back,” the middle-aged man replies with awe, “Wonder what he did to deserve it?”

Dusty walks to where the newly collared Beckett kneels, his eyes blankly on the floor as he traces the bones circumnavigating his neck. Giddy, you can’t resist answering the question with a taunt, “He is an untrustworthy authority. He gave me to them,” you gesture to Sands and Puppy, “as if I was his to offer, assuming that it would please them. This proves that he knows even less of the gods than he does simple human decency.”

His head snaps up, expression finally mirroring your fury. “ _No one_ understands them. They are beyond us in every conceivable way,” he spits out through a clenched jaw, “To think, there are simpletons who believe you are one of them. Hah. You’re as much in the dark as the rest of us. One day you’ll see that. I swear it! To the stars! On my very soul! You don’t understand them and you never will! I regret the sacrifice—Mercy deserves a better bride than _you_ , rattlecap. I hope he abandons you to Death and Destruction. _Curse you!_ ”

You’re taken aback by his vitriol. If you weren’t already beleaguered by angry spirits you’d be worried about his tongue-lashing summoning them. Perhaps you should’ve expected the cornered hound to snarl and bite the air when kicked. Too easy a target, at his lowest like this. Cast aside by the very gods he dedicated his life to. Forced to live out his days with people who will dismiss his knowledge as silliness at best, heresy at worst. A crumb of pity germinates within while you simultaneously celebrate Justice’s work. He’s outdone himself this time. Now you’ll never need to lay eyes on Beckett ever again.

You urge Dusty forward a few more steps, leaning down and bracing yourself on Justice’s shoulder as you whisper into his skull, teeth brushing where his ear would be, “Thank you, Puppy.”

Raising yourself back up to sitting, you’re pleased when this time he returns your grin with a goofy one of his own. Smiling at him over your shoulder, you make your way to the exit. He opens the temple doors from afar with an orange glow and waves as you leave him to his work. You amble aimlessly through the streets as you wonder what to get for Sands. Though you’ve reclaimed your coin purse, the gold you have won’t be enough for the quality you’d want. Yes, you could barter, or offer your services for something, but that would be _slow_. Sands has already waited long enough. Bless his patient soul.

Fast, accessible, inexpensive yet fitting for a seraph...you know what to do. It’s time to demonstrate how capable of a huntress his Y/n is. You require no weapon. There are an abundance of dead animals in the forest, waiting to wake again. Dusty makes a sharp turn to the West and sets off. Her path weaves through houses and to the tall trees. There is a satisfying thunk with each beat of her hooves, softened by the undergrowth.

You feel more in your element, astride your steed and soulmate encircling your waist, than you ever did in your thrilling stint of championing corpses against enemies of the Empire’s order. The warriors had already seen too much to fear the likes of you. They’d even offered a semblance of respect, as you’d saved living soldiers from fighting the battles that could be won with undead. It wasn’t meant to last. A woman is not welcome in a warzone. An exception was made for your Induction and that brief but memorable glimpse had left an impression on you.

An apprentice is made a full-fledged mage by a ritual: for seven days, they are immersed entirely in their element. Pyromancers dance and dream over the fresh embers. Hydromancers bathe under a waterfall or sleep on the seabed. Necromancers are baptized in the battlefield. Death is your element, after all. You denied it, and your puppets dealt it. Those days are long gone. You don’t envy their nostalgia-tinted, corpse-glutted glory.

You’re currently incapable of envy. This moment is too perfect for you to want anything else. Befitting of your genial mood is the ease with which you sense a nearby corpse. And oh, praise your luck, it’s being made a meal of by a group of living predators. Dusty’s pace slows to a stealthy stroll in the direction of your prey. About as close as you dare get without disturbing the skittish beasts, you dismount and help Sands do the same. He opens his mouth but before he can speak you silence him with a single finger over his teeth. You shake your skull, pointing to the distance, whispering in a hush, “Bun-knees.”

At this range you’re not certain what species the dead soul is. You’re only hoping to gain Sands’ cooperation by communicating that you have quarry. Fortunately it seems to have sufficed for he expresses his anticipation through hyperactive nodding. How cute. You hope he stays this excited when he receives his new furs.

Consciously quieting your breaths, you stalk until you have sight of your targets. There’s a circle of wolves devouring what looks to be a doe. Difficult to tell when there’s only half of her left. The largest wolf has a traditional gray pelt, another a deep, midnight black. You think it’s beautiful, but you know Sands doesn’t like black. For him, you think you’ll skin the smallest one. It looks to be a juvenile. Its coat is unstained and snowy white. It’s perfect.

You take cover behind a large mossy log as your attention drifts back to the doe. You’ll be giving her the chance to avenge her death. Her will is unnecessary for that end; you imbue her with a singular purpose—to kill. You watch a safe distance away as her visibly gnawed limbs jerk and kick at her killers. The wolves back away to circle their unfinished meal, attempting to bring it down again by their usual tactics: biting at its haunches and clamping down on its neck. It doesn’t work this time.

You spare a quick glance to the side at your soulmate. His sockets are dark and empty. His smile has dropped. He seems scared though there’s no need to be because, inevitably, the deer will win. It feels no pain. Regardless of how many chunks of flesh are ripped away, of how many buckets of blood spill into the dirt, it keeps going as long as you will it to. And it doesn’t need to persevere for long. The white wolf is caught with a powerful kick, sending it slamming into a nearby tree trunk. The others retreat. They don’t know what is happening but they recognize a losing fight. The young wolf whimpers, unable to follow its pack. The deer silences it with a stomp to its skull.

“Yes!” you rejoice, letting the deer drop down into its peaceful stillness. You walk toward the felled wolf. Pulling out your knife, you prepare the hide for use. You cut from its neck down its stomach, shallowly so as to not spill its guts. “No puncture marks on its back or torso. A bit of blood, but that’s to be expected. All in all, a clean kill.”

With your mage company, hunting had been as much of a sport as a survival skill. All of you were gifted with abilities that, on a good day, put you beyond the threat of any animal, so the group could be as reckless and daring as desired in your hunts. As advantageous as that already was, you were in another category, so uniquely equipped to seek out and eliminate prey that your pyromancer friend had called it ‘cheating’. You’d of course said that was hogwash and that _he_ was cheating by cooking his quarry as he’d killed it. You snicker lightly as you dwell on those jesting disagreements while you work at the wolf’s coat. You catch yourself before you linger in the past too long, not wanting to ignore the future right in front of you.

You turn back to Sands. He’s standing behind the log you’d found cover in. To your surprise, he’s crying. Your jovial mood instantly evaporates. What does he have to be upset about? You don’t understand. The only disturbing thing here is your unnatural magic and he’s seen plenty of that already with no reaction like this. You can only watch confoundedly as he stumbles to the wolf’s body, kneeling over it and shoving your knife-wielding arm away from the corpse. His hands smooths its fur, petting it as a choked sob breaks out between his teeth.

With a sharp inhale, you recognize the emerald mists of divine light emanating from his fingertips and over the mortal tears in the wolf’s tissue. It does nothing. He cannot mend dead flesh. The desperate attempt only serves to insult you. Is this how Gregor felt when you’d spat in his face? You kill this animal for him and the first thing Sands does is try to undo it. And _why_? You hold back the hurt at seeing his precious healing wasted on a mindless beast, hoping to glean his intentions from a touch.

When you reach out, he flinches away. That look on his face—fear. There’s nothing to cause such terror, nothing here except...you. He’s afraid of _you_.

You’re used to seeing that expression on mistrustful citizens, on the villagers who’d strung you up to your pyre, on people who don’t know you and never will. But to see it on your soulmate...You clench the knife tightly and bring the back of your carpals up to wipe away the tears that threaten to overflow. “Sands,” you start, voice breaking, “I thought you were better. I thought _I_ was better. Is it my fate to be feared? Is it a falsehood that I was ever forgiven?”

You can’t believe you’d ever been convinced otherwise. The healing that you’d found so beautiful and meaningful...he’d just shared it with a corpse. It clearly lacks the significance to him that it had to you.

But...he’d _seen_ you. _C_ _ared_ about you. Was it all a lie? You’re starting to think he never knew you at all. And by that look on his face, you don’t think he wants to. You can’t stand to look at him anymore.

You call Dusty to you and leap onto her back mid-stride. She carries you away. Her hoof beats are heavy as she gallops deeper into the forest, trampling down the soil and kicking up leaves. You hear your name. You don’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, just like that, Sands and Skeader go toppling off the pedestals they’d put each other on. Poor Sands got romantically swept away on a white horse (technically, c’mon) into a fairytale forest with promises of bunnies, only to watch Skeader fucking brutally kill and skin a woodland creature. I don’t think he’s entirely justified though. 
> 
> Think Skeader is a heartless witch for killing a cute little wolf? Think Sands is a wimpy little PETA boy for getting that upset about it? Author is split down the middle but whatever you think lemme know.
> 
> Skeader to Puppy: You’re doing amazing, sweetie.
> 
> Skeader to Beckett: u dumb  
> Beckett, writing a 10,000 word counterargument in his head: NO U
> 
> Skeader to Sands: I thought you were my little pogchamp. It turns out...that you were CRINGE. *sad skeader noises*


	13. Chapter 13

Stretch’s judgment is nearly complete. Two humans down, one to go—Isolda. This one will be different. To shame her publicly would end her role as head scientist. That isn’t an option, much to his chagrin. He’s reluctant to acknowledge her competence, given that he _hates_ her for hurting you, but as judge it’s something he’s had to consider. Her work is irreplaceable to these primitive humans. Getting in the way of it would punish the innocent townsfolk as much as her.

Her work won’t be affected by what he has in mind. He toys with a small vial in his hoodie pocket. Thinking within the limitations, it’d been straightforward to come to a conclusion. She’d been the one to hurt you directly. She’d be the one to suffer in kind. An eye for an eye, as the saying goes.

He abandons the temple and teleports to Isolda’s lab. She’s there, studying over her notes. Her helpers are absent. Must be occupied in the stir he’d created. She turns to him quizzically, expecting the usual blueprints and textbooks. He brings to light what he’d brought for her instead, revealing a glass of vividly violet fluid.

There are countless poisons that Stretch could’ve chosen; human eyes are fragile and easy to agitate. He’d selected this one for its magical ability to inspire agonizing, skin-crawling guilt in those it touches. Karma, it’s called. He can create it on his bone attacks, giving them an extra kick against those with high LV especially, but only Rus is experienced enough with the stuff to isolate it. It’s his expertise to extract and concentrate Karma from his magic.

The alternate had been willing to part with a minuscule portion of his poison. That exchange had been fraught, at first. Rus showed up at his doorstep during your cold, wearing his usual purple jacket over a studded leather cuirass that stopped just shy of his ribs. He’d been sent by Razz to retrieve the weighted net. Stretch had sweated up a storm trying to nonchalantly keep Rus out. Luckily the stress proved unnecessary as the scarred skeleton simply stood outside and smoked while Stretch shortcutted to where the net lay, bundling it in his arms. Sans was informed of the unexpected guest and stayed behind with your slumbering self because Stretch is the better bullshitter, if it came to that.

And it did. Rus lingered after collecting what he came for. He’d eaten his cigarette, tossed the net over his shoulder, his single functioning socket squinting. He sniffed the air. “something smells good. what is that?” he’d asked nonchalantly.

 _shit._ Stretch thought. _the net.._. _can_ _he_ _smell y/n_ _on it_ _?_ _i didn’t even think about it because i’m so used to it,_ _but_ _y/n’s heat_ _scent_ _is_ _definitely strong enough to stick around._ _especially since that thing was hanging on her for more than half of it_. Unnerved and taken aback, he had to improvise, “blue’s practicing a new recipe.” _please buy it, please buy it..._

Rus hummed speculatively. “ya know, my bro’s been practicing lately, too. we have three kitchens. all of ‘em nearly burned to bits. ink’s getting real tired of replacing our ovens,” he quirked his chin down to grin slyly up at Stretch, “it’d be a real help if someone shared his insider information. it’d win me some brownie points with berry if i brought a recipe back, a little souvenir. Whadda ya say?”

Stretch folded his arms. “i don’t think blue would want to share. besides, this is a tricky recipe. takes a lot of patience to do right.”

“you saying razz can’t handle it?” Rus prompted, raised browbone. There was no malice in his voice, no threat in his passive posture, but the balled fists bulging in his jacket pockets prevented him from coming off as completely complacent. Stretch knows better than to press the issue. He can get along pretty well with Rus since they’re so similar. They share a sense of humor, the shows they like, the video games they enjoy. However, there are three controversial topics that must be avoided if their frenemy-ship is to be peacefully maintained: whose brother is better, _anything_ ethics related, and music taste. Rus listens to real garbage, in Stretch’s opinion. The sentiment is mutual.

He shrugged, smoothing it over, “nah. i’m saying if your brother’s already burning everything beyond recognition, this won’t be an exception. and i’m pretty sure you only want it because razz would love nothing more than to steal blue’s special recipe to show him up on chef’s night.”

Rus’ shoulders bounced with his snickers, “so you weren’t born yesterday. congrats.”

Those swapfell brothers and their damn evil laughing. Stretch shook his skull, “shut up, you little shithead.”

“c’mon. you know you need me.” The gleeful skeleton dragged Stretch in for a noogie, releasing him when he huffily shoved Rus off. “you’d go crazy cooped up with only that goody-two-shoes of yours for company.”

Stretch glowered at his alternate, holding his tongue. Rus sorta had a point. He has hobbies Blue doesn’t participate in that are significantly better with a buddy. Things that he can’t talk about with his brother. It’s nice to express all that with someone who understands. Except that someone seems to selectively _not_ understand anything to do with right and wrong. “think it’s more likely i’ll go crazy spending time with you—the psycho who enslaved an entire city.”

“nyeheh, now that’s what they want you to think.” Rus remarked conspiratorially, tapping his temple with a pointer finger. Stretch interrupted with a disbelieving “who’s ‘they’?” but Rus ignored it, justifying, “really, i’m the sane one. me and my bro have a solid grip on lady life, the beautiful bitch that she is, the rest of you lot are so jealous of how balls-deep in reality we are that you ignore it altogether. it’s a real shame. some steamy stuff you’re missing out on.”

Stretch stared on, amused and increasingly unsettled as he processed the lengths he would go to in order to keep this evil and horny fuck away from the female monster upstairs. “you’re actually insane.”

“nuh-uh,” Rus objected, “i see the world how she is. it’s you low-level boy scouts who try to dress her up to be what you want, putting make up on the ugly bits and pretending she’s all puppies and prom night. i’m more perceptive and i’ll prove it to you. i know the reason you haven’t kicked me out despite obviously wanting to is because you need something. even if it weren’t written all over you, it’s a law of life, the only reason people put up with each other. i have something you want and if you give me something I want, we’ll have a little trade and both be the better for it. now what is it?”

Stretch tensed his jaw as he considered a counterargument. Ultimately, he decided not to bother. Rus was partially right, after all, and it’s better to ask for what he needed and bid farewell to the troublemaker rather than argue a lost cause and risk Rus discovering you in the meantime. “karma,” he admitted. “i need it for a human who broke the law.”

“ah, crime and punishment. real fun game you’re playing at.” Rus retrieved a bottle of the magic poison from his pocket and tossed it in the air, catching the dangerous substance and all too casually throwing it back up again. Stretch snatched it mid flight only for it to slip out of his hands, encased in reddish purple light. “not so fast. what am i getting in exchange?”

He shrugged, “well, what do you want?”

“the secret recipe.”

“no.” Stretch answered immediately. He couldn’t give something that doesn’t exist and he didn’t trust his bullshitting abilities were sufficient to improvise a legit-sounding recipe on the spot. Even if he could’ve, the deception would have fallen through as soon as the results failed to yield an aroma as appetizing as the one Rus was picking up on. Not that the fake recipe would ever make it past the oven, if Razz had anything to say about it.

“tch,” Rus complained, lighting up another cigarette. “then i’ll settle for a sample. i’m sure baby blue wouldn’t object to feeding a poor soul who’s had nothing but char, ash, and human food for the past week? mm, my mouth is watering…” To himself, he murmured, “that’s not all that’s wet, either. what the hell is blue baking in there? fucking aphrodisiac?”

If they were actually talking about food, Stretch’s reply would’ve been ‘yeah, of course blue doesn’t mind’. Sans loves sharing his home-cooked meals, especially when his creations are eaten with enthusiasm. Unfortunately, this wasn’t about food. Rus was unknowingly discussing you, so the only possible answer was an emphatic, “nope. no way.”

Rus didn’t drop it. He breathily begged for “just a taste?” tone taking on a desperation Stretch didn’t like. Rus’ long tongue snuck out to lick his maw and Stretch lost his cool.

“fuck off, you’re not getting any. pick something else.”

“geez. some hospitality you’ve got here, vapelord. does your big bro know you’d turn away a starving skeleton like this? oh well. just means the cost for karma’s gone up,” Rus goaded him, fanged smile sinister as he snatched the neck of the vial from where it floated, shaking its contents tauntingly. “the price is one big ol’ blank check, signed by you. a favor that i can call in anytime. usual rules apply—three chances to say no, taking a shot of something strong each time. if you use up all your strikes being a chickenshit coward then you gotta do what I ask, no matter what.”

“ugh.” Knowing Rus, that favor could range from the relatively harmless request to provide snacks for their next hangout to some scheme for Stretch to humiliate himself in front of all the other alternates. If the Karma were for a normal judgment, he would’ve refused. There are plenty of poisons without such a steep price tag. But this was for Y/n. If he didn’t do it just right, you’d lose even more faith in him. He wouldn’t risk scaring you further by screwing up Isolda’s eye with a physical poison rather than a psychic one. “fine, a favor it is then.”

Rus tossed the container to Stretch. He fumbled to catch it before it can shatter and spill all over him. Rus might be resistant to the stuff, but he is not. With his luck, he’d get roped into another favor for the antidote. Rus reveled in his victory. He was entertained by Stretch’s struggles, eventually questioning, “what else do you want? seems like you’ve got more to say.”

Sure enough, there was something else on Stretch’s mind. Something that he couldn’t talk to Blue about. But as awkward as it was to get answers out of Rus, internet research wasn’t an option and recent events have led to some potent curiosities. He hesitantly led into the subject, “hey...you uh, you summon a pussy most of the time, right?”

Rus spits the cigarette between his teeth in surprise, raspy laughter rattling in his ribcage as he extinguishes its fallen ember with the heel of a boot. “wow, ok. not what I expected. to answer your question...yeah, i’m notorious for my wet ass pussy. now, why’d you ask? not taking an interested in selfcest, are you, stretch?”

“as if. i just wanna know how it works. i’ve never made one and it seems kinda intimidating…” Trailing off, Stretch sheepishly looked to the side.

“ohh, i see. nyeh. in that case, i’m proud of you—experimenting sexually instead of being the stuck up prude i expected. progress.”

“are you going to help or just make snide comments?”

“i’ll help. this is a cause i can get behind. summoning a pussy can be tricky and if you mess it up, it’d ruin the whole night. make the magic too soft and your partner will feel like they’re fucking a plate of jello. make it too stiff and if anything thicker than a pencil goes in, you’re gonna have a bad time.”

Stretch winced. What he’d envisioned definitely necessitated the handling of larger insertions. Those tentacles of yours weren’t very forgiving, size-wise. It’s incredibly presumptuous of him to plan his pussy around you, who will probably want nothing to do with him once you recover from your cold, but what can he say. Getting skull-fucked by you made him realize how amazing it could feel, inspiring fantasies about taking you in a magical orifice designed for that kind of thing. If you ever initiate intimacy with him some day, he’s going to be prepared for it (and those three devilish appendages of yours). “so how do you get it just right?”

“short answer is, you don’t.” Rus winks at his confused expression. “unlike a tongue that’s always squishy or a dick that’s always hard, a pussy’s gotta be flexible. muscle-y. relaxed when you’re taking in a large load. tense and tight when you’ve gotta squeeze ‘em good.”

Well, that’s all Stretch wanted to know and more. “ok, thanks. bye.” he dismissed himself from the uncomfortable conversation and attempted to shut himself in the tower. Rus’ boot caught the door before it could close completely.

“hold on. i helped so you’d better spill—who’s your muse? guy like you wouldn’t ask me that out of nowhere. nah, someone’s inspired you. so who wants a little puss from bone boy here, huh? a human? one of us, maybe?”

Stretch stubbornly resisted letting him in, shoving his foot out, grumbling, “stoooop. it’s not like that. i was just curious!”

Rus didn’t relent, his snickering heard from behind the door, “i know how it is. you just wanted to emulate your local sex god, rus. can’t blame you. i’d want to be like me, too. i’m a great role model.”

Stretch slumped against the closed door in defeat, sighing, “i hate you.”

“no you don’t~” Rus sings. “see you next week in our hideout. don’t forget the blunts this time, dumbass.”

“…” Stretch listened for a while, skull resting against the wood. When he didn’t hear anything, he peeked into the yard and looked around. No Rus. He finally left. Exhaling heavily with relief, Stretch had returned to where you and Sans were waiting, enlightened with pussy knowledge and armed with a potent poison.

Considering what the Karma cost him, he hopes it’ll be worth it. Isolda stands as he approaches. She isn’t freaking out yet, but is visibly nervous. He’s eager to get this over with. Earlier he’d dreaded the deadline he’d given himself, tempted to procrastinate telling you he’s one of your soulmates until he no longer felt so sure you’d react negatively. That time came sooner than he’d expected.

When you’d woken today, at the bare minimum he’d predicted your fear of him to return. More realistically he’d thought you’d hold him accountable for failing to keep you contained during your heat. That’s why when you’d smiled at him...he could’ve dusted on the spot. You seemed happy with him. You’d rewarded his second sentencing with a tender whisper, a light kiss to the side of his skull...emboldening him with optimism concerning your response. You might not hate him. _You might even like him?_ Imagine _..._

He’d join up with you and Blue on that horse of yours. The merry group would dismount in a meadow of wildflowers. At sunset, Sans would strike off on his own so that Stretch could have privacy. He’d tell you. Take off his hoodie and tank so you can see your name on his ribs. You’d stroke the strange marking, investigating, making him blush...and then you’d lean in...maybe make out a bit, or make love in a lush field of flowers against the backdrop of painted sky...

However far you’d go with him physically doesn’t matter as much as the finale, the happy ending—you’d love them, live with them. Forever, as a family. As _soulmates_. Stretch hadn’t believed in the concept before, but he’s in no place to deny it anymore. He’s in too deep. He’d been spoiled in the week and half he’s known you. In that time you’d rarely separated except to sleep and even then there’d been nights like when your temperature was at its lowest, Stretch and Blue both refusing to leave your side as you’d slept with disturbing soundness. They’d fallen asleep in your bed as the day’s stress and exertion caught up with them.

Waking up with one of your arms wound about his chest was wonderful. He can’t wait until that’s an everyday occurrence. He wills himself to focus on the future he’s hoping for, but fear won’t be ignored.

He mentally revisits that meadow. This time the pink sunset is lost to a dreary dusk. The diminishing light would not hide your horrified expression as you spot your name on his ribs. You’d be disgusted. You’d curse, storming in anger...or worst, you’d cry, and it’d be his fault. His fault for not fitting your expectations, for _failing_ you.

Or your reaction would be something in between the two extremes, a nuance to how you interpret the news that he’ll never be able to understand until he learns the language you speak and even then the moment will have passed so he’ll never really know and stars, fuck. He needs to get all this out of his head before the uncertainty drives him wild.

He wishes you were with him now so he could just rip the band-aid off, but he still has work to do. _o_ _ne more human t_ _o deal with and we’ll reunite_ , he consoles himself.

“let’s just get to the point.” Isolda collapses under the weight of his gravity magic. He crouches on the ground beside her head. His phalanges pry her eyelids open as wide as they’ll go while his other hand pops the lid off the Karma. “bottoms up…”

Her face twitches violently as the fluid pours into her left eye. The whites redden and magenta-tinted tears flood down her face. She gasps and chokes, writhing against the floor. Stretch watches as the physical discomfort is overwhelmed by intense regret. All her sins, crawling under her skin like beetles. It better bite. She deserves this. He studies her affected eye until he’s confident it still functions properly. He releases her from his magic and she curls into a ball, crying.

Without the antidote, Karma will take at least a few days to fade into bearability, even longer for the lingering remorse to be banished entirely. It’ll damage her health, mental mostly, but it shouldn’t be fatal to a human. Stretch is giving himself a pat on the back for a job well done when his phone chimes in his back pocket. From the ringtone, he recognizes it’s Sans calling. Excited to find out where his brother ended up so he can join, he answers by the third ring, “hey bro. perfect timing. i just finished the—”

“PAPPY!” Blue’s broken cry crushes any enthusiasm that he’d been experiencing.

His grip on the phone tightens as he interrogates, “sans? what happened? are you alright?”

“IT’S Y/N!” Dread digs into his soul, pulling down the corners of his teeth. “She’s Gone!”

“gone?” he parrots numbly, praying that Blue couldn’t mean ‘gone’ as in—No, that’s impossible. You’re not dust. You’re perfectly fine and he’s only overreacting. “gone where?”

The question sends the other skeleton into hysterics. Stretch is left in excruciating suspense as waves of tears and sniffles overtake his brother’s ability to speak. It’s broken by Blue getting a hold of his voice enough to say, “I Don’t Know. She Ran Off! She Was On Horseback, I Didn’t Follow Her Fast Enough, And I—”

Another pause in explanation as Blue breaks down. Papyrus can’t believe what he’s hearing. The relief that you’re alive is rapidly replaced with anxiety about your departure. Would you be leaving his life as suddenly as you’d entered it? And so soon? “deep breaths. and another one. good. it’s gonna be okay,” he coaches while wondering what could’ve happened.

“It’s _Not_ Going To Be Okay, I-I Ruined Everything! What If You Never Get The Chance To Tell Her Who You Are To Each Other? What If We Never See Her Again?!”

Stretch tries not to dwell on the answers to those what-ifs, instead prioritizing comfort for his distressed brother, “we’ll find her. you said she’s on horseback, right? they can’t be traveling any faster than fifty miles an hour, max. how long ago did this happen?”

“F-Five Minutes Ago, Maybe?”

“good. only five minutes. that means the circle of y/n’s possible location has a radius of approximately four and a half miles, its centerpoint is where she split off from you. that’s not much ground to cover for two teleporting monsters. where are you? i’m assuming you haven’t left...”

“I’m Still Here, But That’s—” a stuttery sob interrupts Sans mid sentence and he restarts, “I Don’t Know Where I Am!”

That’s more than inconvenient. The circle’s area is going to grow exponentially with every passing moment. In a mere twelve hours they’d only be able to narrow down your position to more than a million square miles of poorly mapped terrain. In a whole day? A week? Well...Stretch is sure they’ll find you before that. He can’t afford to doubt right now. He has to stay strong while Sans is struggling. “it’s alright, we’ll figure it out. what’s around you? any landmarks?”

Blue’s tone is shaky but he succeeds at suppressing the rest of his sobs as he informs, “There’s Only Trees. Trees And C-Corpses.”

“corpses?!” Stretch’s voice loses its reassuring softness as this new information paints a bloody yet frustratingly incomplete picture.

“It’s…” A sniffle, “I’ll Explain When You Get Here. We Need To Hurry! She Could Be At The Bottom Of A Lake Or Hiding In Some Secret Cave By The Time I’m Done Talking About It! Then We’d Never, Ever, Ever Find Her!”

Now Papyrus is confused. It’s true that his estimation of your location is assuming flat, two-dimensional space and adding realistic depth would severely complicate their search as they can’t check under every rock and inside every body of water fast enough to accommodate the ever expanding area of possibilities. He didn’t worry about that because why would you be trying to hide? If Sans accidentally insulted you then you’ve probably go back to your house, your family...maybe a tavern. If Blue expects you to seek shelter immediately in the soonest place you’d deem safe, that would imply a situation entirely different. The sort of situation Stretch is reluctant to attribute to his beloved big brother.

“did you scare her somehow?” he keeps the question sounding as noncritical as possible. He’d been responsible for frightening you before and if Sans hadn’t stopped you at the tower door then you could’ve escaped, never to be seen again. The puzzle maze made that unlikely, but he can still relate to what Blue is going through if that’s the case. However, his sympathy has stipulations. Before he helps he has to hear a good answer to his concern: does y/n _want_ to be found?

“I Didn’t Scare Her. She...She Scared Me.”

“she scared you and then ran away?”

Blue sighs. “In Order For It To Make Sense, I’d Have To Tell You Something That Happened While You Were Drained Of Magic, During Y/n’s Heat But Before I Trapped Her In The Tub. In A Moment Of Weakness…I Touched Her Soul.”

Stretch suppresses his surprise. _seriously?_ he tries to grasp it—Sans did one of the most intimate things you can do with another being _with you_ while you were under the influence of a heat. Sure, Stretch made mistakes. Plenty of them. But in his moment of weakness, he’d just...tied you up more slowly and sensually than what was called for. And later...allowed you to ravish him. No soul stuff whatsoever. Though perhaps he shouldn’t be so quick to judge. After all, Blue had been left alone with you for days while he was recovering his magic. How long was he alone with you before he cracked? Half an hour at most?

“I Know I Set A Sorry Example. I Am Still Ashamed, I Should Have Shown More Restraint. She Was Just So Sad,” Blue becomes wistful and somberly reminiscent, “Have You Ever Touched Your Soul During A Trying Time In Your Life?”

“yeah. it sucked.” as a moody teenage he’d tried to cheer himself up with some self-love only to be hit with the most debilitating existential angst. The soul is the core of one’s being and touching it during a neutral or positive state feels amazing. Doing so during a period of inner turmoil…it’s a mistake most monsters only make once.

“Well, She Tried It. It Obviously It Upset Her. I Don’t Mean To Justify My Actions, Only Help You Understand. I Accessed Her Soul While It Was In Distress. What I Saw There, What I Felt, Was Overwhelming Guilt And Grief. I Had Assumed That Her Guilt Was Unearned. I Spoke To Her Soul. Told Her That I Forgave Her And That She’s Worthy Of Love, Which She Still Is, Of Course, But The First Part…I May Have Made A Mistake. I Don’t Know What She’s Done Or What She’s Capable Of. When I Saw Her Treating Those Humans So Poorly…I Started To Wonder If She’d Been Guilty For A Good Reason.”

“you mean the humans i was punishing? they kidnapped her. there’s no need for y/n to be nice to them.”

“I Know! They Wronged Her. She Had Every Right To Be Upset With Them, But,” Sans strained voice pitches into a piteous plea, “That Wolf! He’d Done Nothing Wrong, To Anyone! She Started S-Skinning Him, And-And When She Reached Out Her Hands Were Covered In Blood!”

Stretch rubs the space between his tensed browbones. So that’s what happened. The aforementioned corpses weren’t human. That’s a relief. Sure, all living things have souls, but they’re smaller the less sentient they are. He knows humans need to use animals for food. This universe is lacking in supermarkets, after all, and with neither a thriving above ground monster population nor the technology to grow crops year round reliably, there’s not much of an alternative to meat. If you grew up around humans it makes sense that you’d adopt their attitudes towards animals. So long as it isn’t needless violence, Stretch isn’t all that upset by it. Maybe he’s been desensitized by his experiences with Frisk or all those horror movies he watches with Rus. Those things definitely can’t be said for Sans.

“I Was Afraid. When She Reached For Me, I Flinched. I Should Have Realized That Showing My Fear Would Agitate Her Self-Hatred, But In The Moment I Wasn’t Thinking About Consequences. I Was Thinking, ‘Who Is She? Who Is My Soulmate, Who Smiles While She Skins An Innocent Creature?’ I Didn’t Understand. And Too Late, I Recognized That My Recoil Had Been Read As Rejection. By Then She Was Already Gone.”

Stretch takes a moment to reassess the situation now that he has a clearer idea of what went down. It’s obvious how highly you thought of Blue. He’d wished he noticed your blatant favoritism a little less, honestly, despite being aware of how much his very cool brother deserves that kind of dedication. If you suspected that the monster you’d thought so much of rejected you, Stretch understands why you’d want to leave. If you’d rejected him he would’ve done something similar. And since he can empathize with the agony of unrequited affection he’s confidently convinced that you must _want_ to be found. Your love isn’t unrequited and you should be made aware of that, but hearing Blue’s doubts reminds him of a detail that should be cleared up before proceeding.

“about that…eh, i really should have said something earlier but…y/n has lv. a fair bit of it, actually. by the amount of exp i’d estimate that she’s responsible for the deaths of around sixty sentient beings.”

The line is silent for a few seconds. Stunned, Sans repeats, “Sixty?! So Many? Papyrus! You Knew This The Entire Time?”

“from that first night, yeah. uh…sorry. never seemed like the right time to say.”

“You Knew. The Entire Time. And It Didn’t Bother You? Not One Bit?!” Blue demands in a way that screams, ‘lecture incoming!’.

 _oh boy_ , Stretch braces himself. He isn’t bothered by his brother’s difference in opinion on this but Blue believes that relationships are influential and thus should not be made with someone of a low moral caliber. This is why he keeps his frenemy-ship with Rus on the down low. Sure, he understands that hanging out with a murderer/criminal/overall creep might count as enabling, or corrupting, or just overall a bad idea. Perfectly sound reasoning. It’s simply that Stretch isn’t super perturbed by it, so long as it doesn’t affect him personally.

You haven’t shown any ill intent toward him or his brother so you’re pretty much good in his book. He’d prefer it if you didn’t kill people or if the people you killed were humans, rather than monsters. That would be much nicer. But does he desire you any less because of your LV? Not really. I mean, that could change if he was provided with upsetting context. Stats alone don’t tell him much. Maybe you’re bloodthirsty and power hungry like Red. Maybe you have good reason for all that LV like Axe. Maybe it’s all total happenstance and you’d served a stint as public executioner. He doesn’t know and doesn’t feel the need to know as long as you don’t go waving a knife around indiscriminately.

Stretch isn’t sure if Blue can stand that kind of moral uncertainty. Instead of answering he flips the question back, “what about you, bro? are you bothered by y/n’s stats? will you still pursue her now that you know?”

“Sixty Lives Ended By Our Soulmate...Of Course I’m Bothered By That! It’s Wrong And Terrifying! But... I Know There’s Good In Y/n. I’ve Seen It. Guilt Itself Is An Indication Of Wanting To Be Better. And She Was So Grateful For Every Kindness, So Sweet To You While You Were Recovering. What Worries Me More Than Her Past Is Her Present And Future. What If She Falls Down Because Of What I Did? What If She’s Wandered Into Quicksand? What If Red Or Razz Finds Her Before We Can? All Of That Is Way Scarier. We _Have_ To Find Her! Stop Asking Questions And Let’s Get Started Already!”

Stretch can’t argue with that. He figures if Blue’s somewhere in the forest he can check the camera footage at the boundary of town until he finds the one that recorded the direction they’d passed through. After that, it takes an exhausting amount of teleportation to finally bump into Sans, who’s using a summoned bone as a shovel. The rank of death is evident and Stretch considers covering his nasal cavity with the top of his hoodie when Blue rushes into a hug. He’s squished into Stretch’s sweatshirt, clinging to the fabric and whispering into it, “Before We Go Home, I Want To Finish Burying Them.”

Papyrus glances at his surroundings and gleans that Blue is referring to the decomposing deer and a (recently reddened) white wolf. It’s a grisly scene. The animals are too torn up to pretend they’re only sleeping. His energy is already waning but he wants to help his brother get closure on this. “ok. we will.”

They pull apart and begin the search. Starting with the hoof prints embedded in the mud, they follow your trail for several dozen yards before dead leaves and undergrowth obscure your path. From then on, it’s guesswork. They split up. Stretch shortcuts to as distant as his eyes allow, scans his surroundings, then summons a tall bone which is spiked in the dirt to mark the area as covered. Blue does the same. Every so often they’ll dial each other and report their status.

The sun sets and there’s still no sign of you. Stretch is running dangerously low on magic. He can only teleport a handful more times before ending up empty, and that’s if he’s being generous. He meets Blue back at where they’d begun. They work wordlessly, digging up dirt and piling it to the side as the hole grows to a size able to accommodate the two carcasses. The mood is appropriately grave as they heave the dead bodies into it and he’s too disappointed to even enjoy his own puns. Once the corpses are covered and the soil firmly packed over them, Stretch sits against a tree and regretfully remarks, “i don’t think i can keep going.”

Blue’s fatigue mirrors his brother and he wearily nods, “I Understand. Go Home And Get Some Rest. Meet Me Here Tomorrow Morning, When You’re Up For It.”

Stretch watches Blue’s back as he walks deeper into the woods. “wait, you’re not going to stop?”

“I Wouldn’t Be Able To Sleep, Anyway,” he states, smiling sadly over his shoulder. He keeps going until he disappears into the dark trees.

Papyrus is alone with the lingering scent of rot and freshly disturbed dirt. He folds his knees and holds them to his chest, contemplating using the last of his magic to make it to his warm bed. He just slumps further into the ground. He can’t go home. Not when it’s empty. Empty of everything but things that remind him of how full it used to be. How full it might never be again. He pulls his hoodie over his head and curls onto his side. He’ll stay here for the night. You might come back. He’ll be here, hoping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a happy ending, sorry (Ｔ▽Ｔ) Have some silliness to cheer you up!
> 
> Rus: bruh i’m deadass hungry rn  
> Rus, clueless and rolling in to the tower drive-through, windows down, blasting WAP full-volume: yeah can I get uhhhhhhh… skeader?  
> Puppy, our tired and dead inside employee: skeader machine broke  
> Rus: understandable, have an explanation of magic pussies  
> Skeader, bringing a bucket and a mop: …


	14. Chapter 14

Your torso tenses as Dusty leaps over a fallen log. Her landing is heavy. You jolt with the impact, your necklace bouncing against your chest. Your gaze is forward, unfocused. Dusty gallops without guidance as the trees blur into the background of your awareness. Your mind clenches that memory of Sands’ expression, revisiting and rationalizing the last several seconds you’d seen of him, wounding yourself repeatedly while searching for any sense you’d missed. It’s an exercise in futility. Once your reasoning skills are exhausted and your soul is beaten sore, you release the image. You reject it, shoving it to the side, refusing to remember. Your jaws tighten and you ride into the wind. It dries your cheekbones and whips your skirts into a flurry.

You discover a river running through the forest. You urge Dusty to follow it and her hooves splash into the shallow water, spraying moisture into the air around her. The hem of your dress is thoroughly soaked by the time you stop. You sit atop her while she stands idly in the center of the stream, dipping her snout to drink only for the water to flow fruitlessly from her skull.

“It’s useless,” you mutter, as much to yourself as to her. “Where are we going? Where _can_ we go?” There aren’t many towns who would welcome a Forsaken. For a person who has found their soulmate to defy their fate by separating…it’s blasphemy. Saying that it’s frowned upon would be putting it lightly. Thankfully, unlike your other sins against nature, being Forsaken isn’t something that can be seen. If you were a normal citizen, residing in the same place and spending time with the same people your entire existence, you would be shunned for all the assumptions that could be made about your character from being apart from your soulmate. After all, what extremity of violence or depravity could drive one away from their destined love? You’ve been asking that of yourself with such frequency that you could not fault anyone else for drawing conclusions. But, you have no people to shun you. No home to be driven from. There is no one who knows enough of you to make those assumptions and so you are safe from them. There may be a place for you yet, where you can find shelter from the superstition of the common folk.

You’ve met two skeletons of the Truth’s pantheon. Perhaps the others will offer sanctuary. Half of them are Harbingers, the ones prophesied to bring humanity’s Ultimate Destruction, which is disqualifying, to say the least. That leaves five: Ego, Ennui, Survival, Spirit, and Creation. Ego and Ennui reside in the labyrinth. Creation is rarely seen and cannot be connected to any known location, according to Beckett. Survival and Spirit live in Holmsfirth, West of Aysgarth on the coast. If you followed this river to the ocean you’d have a good chance of finding it. You wonder what could await you there, in a lordless, presumably lawless city, ruled by the residing undead. If there’s any village in need of your assistance it would be that one. With neither mages nor the empire’s leadership, you imagine that it must be in dire straits.

You could help the humans there. Helping humanity is how you’ve always justified your unholy existence. It’s the noble purpose that has protected your spirit from the harsh realities of society’s rejection of you. Deep down, no matter how the citizens spurned your skills or spited you for your skeletal appearance, you knew that you were useful. That the world was the better for you being in it. The seraph’s terror and repulsion sharply contradicts those thoughts, stinging in its wake.

You’re not sure you can believe that anymore. All your efforts...what if you’d been hurting rather than helping? Is the practical benefit of your magic outweighed by your corruption, an invisible force of evil that infects all necromancy touches? What’s keeping you here, then? Why continue to inflict your cursed existence on the world?

You slip off Dusty’s spine and collapse onto your knees. The riverwater numbs your lower half and attempts to drag the fabric of your dress away with its current. You dig your palms into your sockets. Purple magic spills from you, dripping down your skull and dissipating in the water. You shudder, sobbing as you ruminate: Why does your spirit cling to its broken soul-shell? Why would a seraph be in the body of an undead? Why would you be soulmates with Sands if you’re so irrevocably different?

You understand so little. The endless questions frustrate you to no end, but you feel their pull. You hear their song. The siren call of curiosity, of answers yet unknown. They could be around the corner. Is that enough reason to continue? You suppose it is. You’re still here. You stand, sighing as you squeeze frigid water from your soaked skirts. An unnaturally heated breeze billows around you, evaporating the lingering moisture. Its similarity to a gargantuan breath on the back of your neck has you instantly perking up in awareness of a presence. There’s mischief in the air. “Spirits?” you call, hoisting yourself up to straddle Dusty’s ribs. “I don’t suppose you’d have any answers for me, would you?”

Your only reply is the rustling of the leaves with another gust of wind. Your steed starts up again, trotting downriver. Her hooves plunk with each step in the stream. “I’d be mad to expect anything more. Besides,” you shrug, “if you had all the wisdom you wanted, you wouldn’t be stuck as a restless spirit, would you?”

The wind changes directions and your hair is blown into your face. In spite of your sorry state, you laugh as you brush the spectral strands away from your mouth. Shaking your fist at the sky, you smile as you shout, “Stop that! Shouldn’t you have something better to do than bother a wretch like me? …I suppose not. Then I will subject you to my speculations.”

You’d surely appear insane to any onlookers as you casually converse with the unseen. “If Sands is not a necromancer, then he must have been resurrected by one. What I can’t conceive of is _why_. What would motivate a necromancer to do such a thing? Is Puppy responsible or was he revived by the same scheme?”

There’s fourteen other sentient skeletons as far as you’re aware. Any combination of them could be puppets or puppeteers. Yet, those fourteen are not distinct, are they? Beckett taught you about the theory of their Duplicities, twin gods who repeat themselves under different ‘alignments’. It could be that a pair of necromancers are responsible, with each one combining their will with the one of the formerly deceased and thus creating unique sets in a repeating pattern.

That is a concerning concept. It would imply that each mage is capable of controlling seven distinct souls of significant strength _and_ that Sands is not subject to his will alone. Every undead is subordinate to the necromancer who defied death on their behalf. That control can change hands with the ‘Command Undead’ spell, if the one casting it is stronger than the recipient’s magical source, but imagining a mage with enough power to restore a seraph’s spirit, and from a distance… surely that would put them in another category from you altogether. You’d have no hope of stealing control of Sands from them. That leaves him entirely vulnerable to the whims of a stranger, or some secret society. Despite your distaste for him at the moment, you grow worried for his well being.

Since you’d revived yourself, you don’t have to fret about the source of your wills. However, it’s become increasingly likely that Sands is not similarly self-sustaining. You have to wonder…is your true soulmate the corpse or the will that’s carrying it? Some combination of both? A soul is no simple thing. Its material aspect, affected by the natural world, is called the soul’s shell. Its immaterial facet, affected only by the unnatural, is called the spirit. The divine light of healing can save a spirit and the infernal necromancy can capture one, cradling it back in its body and keeping it from unifying with nature. The latter usage is rare. Most commonly the shells of souls are used as a tool, a puppet, pulling them up by the strings of your own spirit and leaving the deceased’s undisturbed and uninvolved. That could be the case with Sands. If so, why would the necromancers contradict themselves by controlling sentient skeletons of conflicting agendas? You don’t know much of the pantheon beyond what you’d been told, but none of them had sounded quite like Sands or Puppy. There must be more than two spirits involved, to create such a variety of characters.

“This is confusing,” you complain. Your audience of an undead horse and the unshelled spirits do not acknowledge your frustration. You feel heard regardless, continuing, “Is this wishful thinking? Splitting my soulmate in two so I can say that the part of him that rejected me must’ve been someone else? Damn unnatural magic making something as pure as soulmates turn incomprehensible.”

You should’ve payed closer attention to your magical theory classes at the Academy. You consider turning South to return there and resume your studies, but you suspect that they’ll have less answers than you do. They don’t even know that an existence like yours is possible. No, the solution to your riddles are somewhere up North in the haunted forest with these skeletons, and you’re going to sniff it out (in a manner of speaking).

Dusty’s gait grows to a gallop. By sundown you’re well on your way to the coast. You make camp in a dense thicket of trees. The night is cold and you gather firewood, hoping that the light and smoke won’t draw any unwanted attention. There could be brigands in this forest. With your loyal horse by your side, you have no doubt you could handle them, though you’d rather not have to. You use your flint to spark a small flame and it swiftly swells to the size of a barrel. “Being useful, for once, spirits?” you ponder aloud as you watch the damp branches you’d scavenged blaze with unexpected intensity. Staring into its fierce light, your eyelights start playing tricks on you, seeing flickers of faces and waves of red. “Thank you, but I think I’ve had enough of your skulduggery for one night.”

You place your hands inside the hearty fire to heat them. The spirits do not heed your dismissal and remain until you decide that having warm hands isn’t enough, shedding your dress and sitting directly in the campfire. It’s then that you sense you and Dusty are alone, though not truly, you realize, as you watch the smoke funneling through your pelvis float up to the stars. Your friends are watching over you from above. You thumb the scar on your rib where an arrow tip had chipped the bone as it flew to your heart. Your fellow mages hadn’t been able to stop you from being sentenced to death, but one of your friends had killed you before you were consumed in the flesh-melting flames of your pyre. You’re forever grateful for Alys’ act of kindness. You refuse to believe that her mercy had been wasted on a useless, cursed corpse. Whatever your soulmate’s opinion of you, you know that your friends were right to care for you. Soot gathers on the underside of your snowy white bones as you warm with memories.

It’d be best to wash yourself after this but you know a dip in the cold river would lead you right back to where you are now—desperately thawing yourself in the fire. You’d been spoiled by all the time you’d spend in the tower’s consistently comfortable temperature. Its plush beds…steaming hot bathwater available at the twist of a knob. How sheltered must Sands be, then, that he lives entirely protected from the elements, bounteous supply of magical food at his disposal, with hordes of worshipers to offer endless wealth and praise? Has he been so cushioned from nature’s cruelty that he can’t conceive of a necessary death? You consider it, poking at the blackening branches beneath you. You’d though of Sands as a seraph…he’s more of a cherub, isn’t he? “A coward, that’s what he is,” you announce, fists curling in the ash, “A childish, coddled, coward. He mourns too easily, caring for any wretched creature he comes across.”

It’s difficult to sympathize with someone who seems to have suffered so little that they grieve for _wild_ _game_ , of all things. In your anger, you ignore how his sensitivity is what drew you to him in the first place. Instead, you denounce his naivety. Either he’s upset over nothing, or there’s something you’re not seeing that Sands did, detecting a demonic force, or anything that had made your actions worse than you could currently comprehend. You’d sleep easier believing the former.

Once the heat is thoroughly soaked into you, the fire is extinguished and you redress yourself. Dusty lays on her side and you curl up beside her, pillowing your skull with the bag that’d held her bones. “I do not deserve his fear,” you whisper. Until you’re convinced, you’ll keep to yourself. Solitude is safe.

You wake to the chirping of songbirds as dawn lightens the canopy. You rouse with less energy than before you’d slept. Your will has weakened. Only a day without partaking of the mana-restoring food and you’re acutely aware that your magic is draining into Dusty faster than you’re replenishing it. You address her as she nibbles bark from a tree trunk, “I may have to release your spirit sooner than expected. Don’t fret, my friend. Death never bothered you before. I’ll see what I can scavenge in the meantime.”

You scan the area for souls. There are several smaller corpses nearby, their meat already claimed. You need to find something fresher. You climb atop your horse and canter in the direction you sense the most dead. All that are close enough are called toward you. The fleshless and rotted are dismissed. You ride until you recognize the shape of an elk sprinting toward you. You dismount to meet it. You happily observe that its hide is healthy, its blood has not yet darkened with age. Its antlered skull has an extra protrusion—an arrow embedded in its eye.

Oh. This elk had been killed by a human hunter. A rather skilled one, judging by that aim. Nervously, you whirl around, searching for signs of this hunter coming to claim his rightful prey. You stand silently between your two undead minions as you listen for footsteps. There are none. You exhale with relief and turn back to face the elk. There’s a skeleton not six strides away.

You jolt, jumping closer to your trusty steed as you meet the single crimson eye of Survival. It constricts to the size of a coin as it flicks from Dusty, to the elk, to inevitably land on you. He’s taller than the artwork led you to believe. At least two heads above yourself. His hand twitches towards the wooden hilt of his weapon. On his back is a bow and a quiver of arrows identical to the one that felled the elk.

A bead of sweat drips down the side of your skull. Of all the people to steal food from…Survival? The one famous for mage slaying and famine-breaking? Damn your luck. You cover your teeth with a hand, fervently hoping that he won’t force you to eat your own tongue for this trespass. He takes a slow step toward you. You scramble to set things right. It’s not as if you’ve done anything yet, just redirected his quarry towards yourself. You need to show him that you don’t intend to rob him.

You grip the arrow’s shaft, yanking it from the undead elk’s head, splattering your sleeve with gore. You orient the tip towards yourself as you cautiously extend it toward the other skeleton, inquiring, “Is this yours?”

Survival stops in his tracks. He surprises you by speaking, the deepness of his voice a rumbling that you might attribute to a bear who’s just awoken from a winter of sleeping. “yes.” he states, inspecting your offering, then collecting it. He wipes the bloody arrow tip on the hem of his already soiled shirt, adding a brighter streak of rust to its other stains, before returning it to his quiver.

“You can understand me?” you stand straighter, tone lifting with optimism. You hadn’t expected a skeleton ‘god’ to speak your language.

He pauses, his eyelight dilating and constricting as he mulls on your question, scratching near the gaping crack in his skull. “...some,” he concedes.

Ah. If it isn’t his native tongue, of course there are some concessions to be made. “I will speak slowly,” you declare. You struggle to decide on a single topic to discuss when so suddenly afforded an opportunity to attain the answers you seek. Instead, you endeavor to diffuse the situation. “I am sorry to have interrupted your hunt. If it please you, I can help you return home with your prize.”

You busy yourself in absentmindedly combing the elk’s coarse fur with your fingers, anticipating his response. He’s quiet and you continue, “I am Y/n. What should I call you?”

His eyelight expands to fill his socket with scarlet. His hand lifts from its defensive proximity with his weapon to his shoulder, where he cups the end of his collarbone over the furs of his coat. “y/n?” he repeats. The awed and uncertain tone of his response makes you uneasy. Does he know that you’re Sands’ soulmate?

You nod, and Survival starts to mirror the gesture, skull dipping as he looks down at the dirt. “we should…” he pauses, then points a phalange westward, “home is this way.”

His accent is thick, a guttural Northern dialect with entirely foreign inflections. Still, you think you manage to decipher his meaning. “You’ll accept my help? Good. Then let us fulfill our common purpose in peaceful accordance.” You extend your hands, one fist and one flat palm, hoping that this skeleton is more socially apt than some.

Your wish is rewarded. Survival shakes your hands in a customary fashion. Your fist is swallowed by the sheer size of his long, clawlike fingers. They completely cover your clenched hand. The visual would unnerve you if it weren’t for the intent emanating through the lingering contact. You sense your own emotions in him—cautious and hopeful. His hands slowly slip from yours. You separate feeling safer.

You mount Dusty and study the skeleton below you. The weapon strapped to his side is a sharp axe. It could very well be that its blade has been buried in nothing besides trees, but you’re reluctant to allow an armed man at your back after so short an acquaintance. Despite feeling more secure than at first, Survival is still essentially a stranger, and you won’t share your steed with him. You inspect the elk. It is fresh, free from rot, and its back is unbloodied. You will it to lower itself. It kneels on the forest floor and waits for its rider. Your attention returns to Survival. He stands in the same spot, as if stuck. Supposing you should encourage him, you assure, “It will not hurt you.”

That fails to convince him. You persist in a different direction, “The burden of your bones won’t be enough to break its back. It won’t be as swift or as steady as a horse, but together we will make good time towards your home.”

He watches you speak. His gaze falls to the undead elk as you self-consciously shift your skirts to a more modest position about your legs. You should be sitting sidesaddle for decency’s sake, but it’s annoyingly impractical and you’re a creature of habit. Finally, Survival moves towards the elk. He approaches it from its front and runs a hand along its side, as if soothing a skittish stallion. Once he’s straddling its spine you command the animal to gradually rise. Its height is noticeably greater than Dusty’s and you’re forced to crane your neck to peer up at his expression.

His distals dig into the elk’s bulky neck. His teeth are curved in a grin, yet you suspect it’s habitual rather than genuine, as it had remained during the tenseness of your initial confrontation. “Shall we go?”

When he nods assent, you urge your undead forward. Side by side they swivel through the tunnels of trees. The elk’s unusual gait when trotting has him seizing its antlers for stability. You almost laugh at image of his body bobbing as he holds on for dear life, but you are partially responsible for his plight. You decelerate until their pace is more comfortable and consider how to fill the silence.

‘What are you?’ seems too direct and accusatory to be polite. ‘From whence did you come?’ is less aggressive a question so you attempt to courteously sate your curiosity, tilting your skull to observe Survival and saying, “In Aysgarth it is said that you skeletons appeared out of the air in metal vessels. Where is it that you hail from?”

He points upward.

“The overworld?” you confirm incredulously.

“sort of.” he shakes his skull. “…you? where were you?”

You snort. _Sort of?_ How should you interpret _that_? You’ve been nowhere as interesting as the clouds and stars so you respond, “Many places. On the solid earth, mostly.”

His socket squints. “underground?”

You return his scrutiny. As an undead you’ve obviously been beneath the dirt more than you’d have liked. Perhaps a skeleton from the sky wouldn’t understand that. You chose to humor him. “Yes. I was buried for many years. Were you?”

“yes.” His previously consistent smile shrinks. He somberly looks towards the coast as the trees thin and allow a view of the sea. “with others. where are yours?”

“Others?” You tap your chin. Was Survival buried in a mass grave? If that horrific head injury of his had been incurred on the battlefield that would make sense. But to assume the same of you would be odd. “I was alone.”

“I _am_ alone,” you amend woefully, as that much has hardly changed since you’d crawled out of your grave.

Survival is thoughtful, sitting back and letting his hands loosen from the antlers and drop to his lap. “no.” he contradicts, his speech intoned as if he were being supportive.

You’re perplexed. You give him a chance to elucidate. “No?”

He emphasizes his point with a thumb jabbed towards his own chest, “…me.” There’s an aura of surety to his statement, as if he’d explained the fullness of life’s mysteries. Ah, he disagreed because you are not alone, anymore. Because he is here. Technically, but…

“That will only be true for a short time. I will leave and be alone again once our business is concluded, and your quarry is rightfully home.”

Survival’s browbones lower. “wait.”

“What?”

“wait,” he reiterates, and that is all he’s willing to say for the last few minutes of your journey, until you reach the border of Holmsfirth. Unlike Aysgarth, there are no strange lamps or strings connecting the houses. It’s familiar, looking much like a village you could’ve seen a few days south of the Capitol, except for the enormous ships you can spot off the coastline. You’ve never seen so many sails, all stacked on top of each other like that. You reckon that half the population of this town could be squeezed on to one of those vessels. You’re shocked there’s any forest left, with how much lumber must have been necessary for such a construction. You spend so much time staring at those massive ships that you miss how the humans here react to you. That is, until they’re swarming you.

You stiffen. Dusty and the elk come to a sharp halt as humans hasten in your direction, shouting amongst themselves, “Who’s _that_?” and “Hunter’s back early.” Most of it you can’t make out. There’s another language. An islander one you’re vaguely aware of. Not only that, but several people sprint over to greet Survival and speak to him in that strange tongue of Sands and Puppy. He keeps you pinned with his eyelight as he converses with them. The humans switch between languages with a casualness that confounds you. The citizens of this city must be well-learned to be fluent in not two, but three tongues. One of the group breaks off towards the beach. Another addresses you, “Salutations! Welcome to our city!”

This…is not what you’d expected. You school your nervous expression into what you hope is a friendly one, “Well met, my fellow. Thank you.” The man who’d spoken to you looks to be a merchant. His clothing is colorful and his cap holds a feather. He continues to converse with Survival until the citizens are shooed off by the gruff skeleton, just in time for them to be replaced with a horde of children.

Young ones, frolicking between you and the other skeleton, poking at all Dusty’s bones their little arms can reach, giving a similar treatment to the elk, petting its fur. Their diminutive height is lessened by your seat above them, yet their presence fills you with more anxiety than the adults had. You’ve never been this close to a child. A living one, that is. Not since you’d been one yourself. It’s not like villagers wanted their vulnerable offspring anywhere near a necromancer like you. And once you’d shed your skin, a mother’s coddling no longer became necessary as young ones were liable to run away crying at the sheer sight of you.

How should you act around them? You’re afraid that Dusty just might flatten one under hoof, they’re so recklessly running about. You look about for the guardian of this gaggle of children and find another skeleton. One with circles of glass over his sockets and metal molded to his teeth. He’s about your height, eyes level with yours—Wait.

You’re on horse back. This skeleton is not. Your eyes descend to swipe over the entirety of his form and your mind blanks for a moment. This man must have been a giant before he died. No human is that tall! Survival holds a discussion with this skeleton in the time that you’re gawking at him. When he’s finished listening to whatever Survival said, his hands intertwine in front of his chest—those fingers, stars, the size of them!--and he steps directly before you, voice strong yet soft, despite his stature, “Y/n?”

You can taste the ocean’s salt in the air as you inhale to answer, “Yes?” At the sound of your voice his armored teeth spread into a beaming smile. Behind you, Survival shuffles off the elk and wrangles the unruly herd of children in Spirit’s stead.

“My Brother Tells Me That He Found You Alone In The Forest, And That You Plan To Return There. I Wonder If You Would Like To Stay? Since You Helped Bring This Meal Home, It Only Makes Sense That You Should Share It With Us!” Spirit seems more verbose, his accent airier than his brothers, though his foreignness comes through in the roughness of his consonants and the throatiness of his vowels. 

You consider this, taking into account the length you’ve gone without eating, but unable to dismiss your reservations, “…Are you sure it’s safe?”

“Why Wouldn’t It Be?”

You pause. Is he being polite or does he really not know what you are? “I’m a necromancer. Some say that my presence attracts demons and brings misfortune.”

“A N-Neck Romancer?” color blooms on his cheekbones as he adjusts his glasses, “I Don’t Believe I’ve Heard That Term Before. Would You Explain It To Me?”

_What?_ How has this undead skeleton not heard of necromancy? How else does he make sense of the fact that he isn’t dead right now?? You console yourself with the concept that he has a word for it in his native language, and simply hasn’t learned it in yours yet. “It means that my magic is unnatural. It comes from the underworld and allows me to control corpses or temporarily restore spirits.”

“Wowie! That Sounds Useful! Not Sure What Would Be Unsafe About That? Will The Meat Be Inedible Because Of It?”

You’re unable to meet his gaze, caught off guard by his earnest, unintentional flattery. It _is_ rather useful, you admit mentally, as purple flushes your face. However, any food that’s been affected by your magic, whether its a freshly dead animal you’ve puppeted or fruit from a plant you’ve revived…there is a certain strangeness to it. You can’t taste the difference, but your friends explained it vaguely as ‘reminding them of you, somehow’. “No, it should be safe to eat.”

“Great! You’ll Stay And Eat With Us, Then?” Spirit insists, his open eagerness for a brief second reminding you of Sands. Your torso twists to regard the forest you’d emerged from. Who would you really be protecting, if you stayed in solitude?

You observe Spirit, towering at nearly ten feet tall, and Survival, his axe glinting in the daylight as he carefully scoops up an armful of children while amusing another, perched on his shoulder. They should be at least as strong as Sands and Puppy, based on size. By those stories you’d read of their exploits, they must be competent at mage-killing. And by their names alone…you have to assume them capable of self-preservation in a physical and spiritual sense.

You sigh and swivel back to meet Spirit’s expectant expression. You cause his grin to grow as you announce. “I shall stay for lunch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How I see it, Axe has been immersed in several language in this universe but due to his head injury, has trouble being fluent in anything but his native speech. No doubt when he said “where were you”, what he really meant was “where have you been all my life?” I was hoping to sneak some of his POV in this chapter but it got long, so you'll have to wait to see his thoughts on all this until next time!
> 
> Skeader, sitting straight down in the fire after spending all day sobbing and speaking with spirits: This is fine.  
> Also Skeader, looking Specs up and down: In awe at the size of this lad. Absolute UNIT  
> Specs, restraining himself from picking Skeader up off of Dusty: In Awe At The Size Of This Lassie. So SMOL


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ ] will be used to symbolize untranslated words. I'm not as badass as Tolkien and I haven't actually fleshed out an entire language for Skeader, so they're basically just placeholder gibberish words to show that Horrortale Sans/Hunter didn't understand something. Happy reading!

Hunter glowers at the little rascals running circles around him. Humans are such a handful when they’re small. When he’d asked Nafi to fetch his bro, he hadn’t meant for Paps to bring the whole peewee brigade with him. Paps—or Harvey, as Hunter has become accustomed to calling him—is the local teacher. Well-qualified considering he’s one of the few in this universe to know basic science _and_ possess the patience to explain it. This society still has a long way to go, but educating the young ones has done much to amend that ignorance. Today, though, they’ll have to make do with a substitute instructor. Harvey isn’t going to pass up this opportunity to prepare a meal for his soulmate.

He asks you for a turn on the elk. Once he’s settled, he helps a few kids up as well. Some try to play on the antlers like a macabre jungle gym. He heads the nebulous crowd of children and herds them towards the school. Sans spots you gravitating off to the side, using your skeleton horse as a shield against the crowd. He wants to approach you, but his hands are full at the moment.

A boy’s grubby little fingers grab at the edges of Hunter’s broken skull. There’s an unpleasant sensation as a foreign object falls into his head’s chasm. He snorts instinctively, shaking himself off. The kid on his shoulder claps and celebrates, happy with his handy work. He grunts in the gremlin’s language, “stop that.”

You’d think he was speaking gibberish, not Guerdish, for all the good it did him. Another pebble is dropped down the void. He cringes, releasing his armful of children to pluck the five-year-old up by an ankle, holding him upside down until all the stones in his pockets plop onto the dirt. The unrepentant menace is set onto to the ground and dashes to the front of the group, giggling all the while.

Sans’ respite is short. Munya, a girl around twelve, scurries to his side, remarking, “I’ve never seen a lady skeleton before. She’s pretty. Will you propose?”

His eyelight flicks to you, cheekbones coloring. You don’t react. The kid is lucky you didn’t understand or else she’d end up on dish duty indefinitely. “heh. seems a little soon for that.”

“Not if she’s your soulmate, silly! Is she?”

“…” Sans observes you walking a few dozen paces ahead of him. He’s lost count of how many times he’s had to ask Papyrus if they’re seeing the same thing—shadows twisting into recognizable shapes, eyes watching from the seafoam—making sure he hasn’t lost his marbles. Turns out this universe is just weird. He’s experienced a lot of strangeness but this soulmate stuff really takes the cake. The humans who marry whoever their tattoo tells them to seem to get along alright. Divorce doesn’t exist here, as far as he can tell. That hardly mattered. He isn’t human, isn’t from this world. Sure, he had a soulmark, but never thought it’d apply to him. Until…it did.

This morning had been business as usual. He was about to drag his kill back home when the definitely dead elk just got up and walked off. Utterly baffled as he was, he wasn’t about to let it get away. He followed it. Found you. A fucking female skeleton monster meandering around in his forest. All it took to start believing fate might have plans for him was to simply look at you.

He hadn’t been able to believe his eye. He felt like he’d stumbled into a folktale, a cautionary story wherein you, a nymph, protector of the woodland creatures, smite him for audaciously hunting your beloved animals all these years. He was glad to be wrong about that. Well, partially wrong. You didn’t smite him. Regardless, he’s smitten. You smelled like a campfire. Underneath the smoke he scented a sweetness that made him want to get closer to you. You gave him his arrow back, told him your name. Helped him with your magic so instead of having to carry the corpse back, the corpse carried him. Heh. He likes that trick of yours.

What he doesn’t like is how unperturbed you are by his presence. It’s good you didn’t run away screaming and all that, only, with you possibly being the sole survivor of your underground, he’d expected to have a little more impact as a male monster of your subspecies. He’s thrilled to have found you. Why are you so eager to be alone again?

Munya must have seen an answer in his expression because she giggles, “I’ll help you, then!”

She sprints towards you until his hand catches the back of her shirt. “hold it. you tell y/n anything embarrassing, i’ll take your tongue and toss it in a pile of rotting fish.”

Accustomed to his empty threats, she merely cringes and wrinkles her nose, complaining, “Ew! I _hate_ fish!”

“you’d better watch it, then.” Only marginally abashed, she strides towards you, ducking under the arm you have on the horse’s spine to enter your personal space. You stiffen, poised yet visibly apprehensive around humans, especially children. If this world’s Frisk is anything like his, he can’t say he blames you. It took some time for him to learn enough of humans to accept that an individual’s actions don’t reflect the entire human race. There’s a lot of variety. Are they worse than monsters, generally? Yeah. But there’s a percentage of the population that _is_ good, _is_ worth protecting, and he won’t let that minority of shitbags fuck it up for everyone else.

He wonders how your underground had gotten fucked over. Was it a genocide attempt? A core failure? Whatever it was, it’d happened for the first and last time. There’s no resets, here. No determination, no do-overs. That’s good for him, having gotten well and truly sick of reliving the same parts of his life. For you…well, what’s done is done and you haven’t had the chance to become desensitized to it. Then again, you'd claimed you can ‘restore spirits’. Even Ink doesn’t have that ability and the guy is crazy overpowered. Could you resurrect a monster whose soul has shattered? Sans doesn’t know how necromancy works. He’ll have to learn from you over lunch.

For the moment he enjoys his ignorance, indulging in a fantasy. He could take you back to his universe. You could undo all of that needless death. In his mind he watches broken families reunited, his dust-stained hands washed clean…but there’s a reason he hasn’t returned. Not because he hadn’t found the right magic trick to fix the past, no. He can’t cope with the risk of having all his progress stripped away, without warning, by a reset. Never again.

He snaps back to the present. He strains himself to catch your conversation with Munya, cursing Ebottonian for its fast pace and all its similar sounding words. The young girl grins at you. “Greetings,” she begins, “Have you heard about the hero of our town and how he freed us from the evil [proueth]?”

What was that last word? Whatever. He knows what she’s talking about and there’s a whole lot of colorful terms that could be said about the rat bastards that ran this place before he stepped in. Your horned skull glances from side to side, searching for something. You wince and edge closer to the horse, replying briskly, “I have.”

Oh? How interesting. He hopes its accurate, whatever it is you’ve heard about him. Munya chews her lip. “What about his name? You know why we call him Hunter?”

You throw a quick glance over your shoulder in his direction. “Because…he is one?”

He smothers a snicker. Munya huffs and tosses her black braid over her shoulder. “No, it’s more than that! Look at him! Look at his eye! What do you see?”

This time he looks pointedly away from you, feigning nonchalance, as you sneak a drawn out inspection of him. He listens carefully to your response, “It’s [celsted]. Magic should not be red.”

He growls under his breath. Fuck Ebottonian. Shitty language for a shitty empire. If he could ask you to repeat yourself, he’s sure he’d get it. Doesn’t have that luxury while eavesdropping. At least he understood that last part. He’s curious about your reasons for saying his magic shouldn’t be red, since you’re right and all. Could you somehow understand that his magic isn’t normally that color? Or is it because there’s no determination in your universe, so magic doesn’t manifest in red hues? That might make sense for mages. Not monsters though.

To his relief, Munya repeats the word he’d missed as she rebuts, “It _is_ unnatural! It’s from the above world, where he comes from. It’s the magic of the Hunter’s moon!” He winces at the misinformation you’re receiving. Turns out its really hard to explain alternate universes to people who still think the sun revolves around the earth. The only way he’d been able to explain his origins in a way that made sense to anyone was ‘the space beyond the sky’. It’s led to some assumptions that are hard to stamp out. This culture worships celestial objects, specifically their light, so saying he was from space was not ideal. Thankfully, the people in his town don’t pray to him or ask for miracles. Most know him personally so they understand he’s as far from perfect as it gets. He plans to clear that up with you, given that you stay longer than lunch.

“Oh.” You straighten, tone softening. Your head quirks cutely as you wonder, “Why the moon, and not the red star…or the light from below?”

Munya is pleased with your engagement but aghast at whatever you’d insinuated. “They’re _not_ demons. Think about it! In [buterhar] the days are short and cold. The Hunter’s Moon helps us by giving us more [durwer] to amass meat for Winter, just as his brother, the Harvest Moon, lights the way for us to gather the last of our crops by night! So many great spirits rose to the stars from our village that they convinced Hunter and Harvest to fall here, to save us from starvation. Isn’t that amazing?”

He watches keenly, awaiting your reaction. You, however, simply hum, deep in thought. Munya searches the both of you and after a pause, slinks back to his side. She switches to his native tongue, informing, “I warmed her up to you. You are welcome.”

“made her have unrealistic expectations, more like,” he mumbles imperceptibly, then, louder, “i appreciate the effort kid, but this is between me and her. stay out of it.”

She scowls and kicks at the dirt. Soon the group closes in on the lodge that serves as the school and orphanage. She and the other children return to their lessons. Hunter and Harvest’s home is right next door; they need to stay close in case some alternates decide to prey on the humans here. So far they’ve been safe from any soul absorption. Hunter destroyed his machine after a nightmare of being forcibly sucked back through, so there’d be no point in trying to steal it. Still…they take precautions. When Harvest leaves to go foraging, Hunter stays behind. And while Hunter is, well, hunting, Harvey sticks close to the children, teaching and helping to rear the ones without a proper parent. They never leave the town unprotected. If one of those fell bastards slaughtered their way through his city like they did Knaptoft…even Ink couldn’t stop Hunter from dusting the ones responsible.

Harvey dismounts to usher the kids inside. Once each one is accounted for and left in responsible hands, they head home. He splits off to set the table and prepare the side dishes as you and Hunter take the elk to the ‘slaughter shed’. Your horse refuses to enter it, whinnying loudly. You try to soothe her, “Calm, Dusty, calm.”

He freezes. “why’d you call it dusty?”

“She covers me in dust,” you respond, much too casually.

For the first time since your initial meeting, his hand looms towards his axe. He wishes he could see souls like he used to. Forcing himself to delay his conclusions, he grits out, “she’s killed?”

“Yes.” you sigh, stroking her spine. Her large equine skull comes to rest on your back as she arches over your shoulder and into your hug. “She protects me.”

Protection, as in self-defense? He relaxes somewhat. The endearing fondness in your voice is enough to banish the worse of his fears. You don’t _seem_ like a bloodthirsty psycho, still… “she stays back.”

You hesitate, then acquiesce. The horse is left behind as you and the elk enter. It’s eerie watching an animal walk itself to the butcher’s block. Odd that this one didn’t resist like Dusty did; it acts more like a doll than anything. He becomes comfortable as falls back into familiar tasks. You help him process the elk. You aren’t quite as discerning on separating the distinct cuts of muscle, but you’re fast and efficient. The tang of blood overwhelms your scent. As you work, he attempts to discover how your powers function, prompting, “you bring animals back to life?”

“No. Not alive [luncely]. [Nullar] alive again. Not only animals, either. Plants. [litypikens]. People.”

That was a lot of unknown words. He brushes past it as what he really want to know is if you can resurrect monsters, or as he’s forced to put it, “people like us?”

Your browbones furrow. “It is obvious,” you state. _oh, is it?_ He rolls his eye. “You cannot do this?”

“no,” he grumbles. You squint in concentration.

“Do you know of others who can?” He shakes his skull. You appear frustrated. You apply unnecessary force as you saw at the elk’s flank. After a beat of silence, you demand, “Who controls you?”

Hunter pauses. What a weird question. Are you into some kind of mind control conspiracy? Gruffly, he replies, “no one. only i do.”

“Impossible,” you assert. He’s involved in the most bizarre interrogation ever as you continue to press with queries like, ‘How did you die?’ ‘Who’s magic moves you?’ and, his personal favorite, _‘Have you sucked any souls?’_

It’d been difficult not to fluster at that one. He nearly dropped his knife. However, he knows ‘soul-sucker’ is one of the most taboo insults in Ebottonian so he takes you seriously and answers, in order, ‘i don’t die.’ ‘just mine.’ and ‘no,’ very narrowly resisting the urge to add, ‘but hopefully soon’.

None of his responses satisfy you. You pause your work to inspect him, accusing, “You are a strange skeleton.”

He snorts. “i could say the same.” To his awe, you join in his amusement, laughing. That’s a beautiful sound. From that point on the process continues with a light atmosphere. When the elk is completely dismantled, he gathers it all up and takes it to Harvey.

Harvest happily accepts the meat and selects several of the most scrumptious cuts for lunch today. When his brother moves to sit down, he chides, “Stop Right There! I’ll Not Have Your Gore-Covered Hands Dirtying Up My Clean Kitchen! Go Wash Up! You Too, Y/N.”

You look down at yourself, observing the blood soaked into your sleeves. Hunter directs you to the washroom, where they have a rainwater collector hooked up to a simple faucet. He just wipes his hands off on his shirt and changes into a new one. Once Papyrus deems him acceptable, he returns to the table and kicks up his feet. After a while of struggling to speak, it’s a relief to go back to the language he’s most used to. “you’re a real player, paps. every time you’ve asked a skeleton lady out, she’s said yes.”

“But There’s Only One Skeleton Lady, And I Only Asked Her To Lunch One Time!” Harvey all too humbly denies.

“bah, sample size don’t matter—that’s a hundred percent success rate. i’m counting on you to seduce her into staying.”

“NYEH!” Hunter snickers at his brother’s blush and rattled behavior. He’s joking, but it’s sort of true. Harvey is the silver tongue of the two of them. Based on what had happened in the shed, he’s pretty sure that Paps will be the one to convince you to stay. He’s counting on it. Gotta hear that cute laugh again.

A sound of something breaking from another room. He jolts, sharing a concerned look with his brother. That was the room you’d been freshening up in, wasn’t it? He knocks. There’s no response. He opens the door.

Stepping inside, he sees the source of the commotion. The mirror is shattered. You’re among its jagged fragments, below its empty frame. Your back is to the wall, your knees tucked into your chest. Your hands are taut around your black horns.

His permagrin melts away. He’s happened upon a scene like this before. Papyrus hadn’t taken to his transformation well, and they’d gone through many mirrors underground. He defaults to checking you for signs of self-harm, hoping he’d gotten to you in time. He exhales in relief when you appear unharmed. He approaches, slowly so as not to startle you, and crunches a shard of mirror underfoot. Your skull snaps to him. “They are getting worse. Always growing,” your voice is small as you beseech him, “Surely you are strong enough to snap them off, shave them down to [ekish]. Will you grant me this?”

“why?” he asks, horrified.

“They are a mark of evil.” Hunter processes this. Harvey’s changes were a direct result of a necessary evil. It’s hard not to associate those differences in appearance with what caused them. He’s not sure if this is the case with you. Still, he wouldn’t have supported his brother seeking to shave down his teeth except for the fact that they were physically painful, often impractical.

“is there…pain? do they harm?”

Your hands retreat from your horns to draw your knees closer to yourself. You shake your head. He lowers into a squat beside you. He tries to puzzle out why you perceive your horns as evil. They _are_ associated with demons, in his universe and probably yours, but that’s because demonic imagery is based around boss monsters. Surely you’ve seen at least one, in paintings if not in person. Wouldn’t you then associate the goatish features with strength and nobility, like he does?

“where i come from, the ones who have horns are…” He struggles to recall a translation for ‘boss’, or ‘monster’, for that matter. With some hesitation, he provides, “they’re strong. royalty.”

Your head tentatively lifts. “On the moon, you mean?”

Damn it, Munya. “not…exactly.”

You stare at into the distance for a minute and stand. “I see.” you remark coldly, brushing yourself off and examining the broken mirror with regret. “I will repay you for the destruction I caused.” You step over the breakage to your bag, where you retrieve a coin purse. A pile of glittering gold coins are deposited into your hand and extended towards him. The coins are embossed with the image of that Empress. The one who’s responsible for allowing an asshole like that Lord Mage to climb the ranks and kill innocent people with his short-sighted greed.

Hunter reflexively sneers, refusing to take them. “no money. we don’t use it.”

“What?” you gape, fist closing around the coins. “What about the [elbornathel]? You may barter but the [clothogicate] is superior in every sense! How can you trade without currency?!”

His grin returns, glad to see your enthusiasm again even if it is at the expense of his society’s system. “harvey can explain. in the kitchen, when you’re ready.”

Once he’s sure you’re stable, he steps out and rejoins his brother, informing him that their little soulmate had a scare. Hunter also warns that you’re about to have a flood of questions about where they come from and how civilization doesn’t instantly collapse without money or a market economy. Sure enough, once the blood is washed from your sleeves you storm into the kitchen, demanding answers. Harvest provides them for you while he marinates the meat. He may have chosen an especially long method of food preparation to extend the length of time you’d committed to spend with them. Hunter smirks. His brother is so smart.

Their system is surprisingly simple once Harvey lays it all out. Able-bodied adults work at whatever they feel best at, farming, smithing, fishing, rearing children. Production is recorded and the goods distributed. Everyone gets what they need. You challenge why anyone would work if they are already provided for. Not a problem. Anyone who would parasitically leech off the labor of others is accounted for. Their village is small, less than three hundred people, a manageable enough size for Harvest and Hunter to notice when individuals try to abuse the system. If they don’t want to help the community, they can fend for themselves after he gives them the boot.

You remain skeptical. “If You’d Like To See How It Works, We Can Show You! How About A Tour After Lunch?” Harvey offers. You nod acceptance. Sans is hit with a rush of gratitude for his brother’s persuasive talents and another for his culinary abilities as the aroma of what’s cooking fills their cabin.

He’s is openly drooling by the time the meat’s ready. Harvest loads the dog salad into a bowl and adds it to the set table. Hunter preemptively pours himself a glass of ketchup. You scrutinize his unconventional fruit smoothie, inquiring, “What is _that_?”

You poor monster. Ketchup hadn’t been invented in this world so he’d had to introduce it to humanity. The recipe is simple: “tomatoes, sugar, and vinegar. call it ‘ketchup’.”

“Vinegar?” you confirm, tone elevating with hope.

“yup.” His grin spreads as you perk up. “you want some?”

“Yes please.” He hands you his cup. You take a sip, sockets widening. “This is wonderful.” He passes you the jar. You fill your glass and knock back nearly half of it before the elk’s cooked. There’s a red residue on your teeth. He unconsciously licks his own as he rests his skull in his palm, in a reverie.

A large slab of meat is dropped onto his plate and Hunter comes back to himself. “The _Real_ Food Is Ready,” his brother declares, clearly disappointed at his degenerate drinking habits, “Thank You, Y/N, For Your Help, And For Joining Us Today. Dig In!”

He cuts off a bite. The meat is tender, juicy, and _holy fucking shit_. A monster’s magic is in this. _Your_ magic. Grillby used to cook with his flames, back when he had the magic to spare. Damn did it make a difference. He’s missed this. It isn’t the signature style of Grillby’s, but all its own. Indescribable. Delicious. He can’t help it. He slides the entirety of his plate’s contents into his mouth. He sets it down with a _thunk_ and noisily licks his chops. “Brother, That Was Impolite! There _Is_ A Lady Present, Use Your Silverware For Stars’ Sake!”

“sorry, paps. it’s just so good.”

“I’ll Get You Another Slice. Savor It This Time!” It’s a shame Harvey doesn’t eat red meat anymore. He’s missing out. Oh well. More for Hunter. He follows his brother’s advice, eating his seconds slowly. You compliment Harvest’s cooking and ask what seasoning he used. He’s happy to share his techniques as Sans gets lost in his meal.

The conversation leads to the properties of monster food. You seem confused about it, wondering where it comes from and how it’s made. Thankfully you don’t ask his bro any weird questions. Paps does his best to clear things up, but the process of harvesting ambient magic and making it into a dish is complicated, to say the least. He’s barely scratched the surface by the time everyone’s finished eating. Not that Hunter’s ever really finished. He longingly eyes the uncooked meat, lamenting the need to share it.

Harvest organizes it, packing it into piles which he then labels. He hands it over for his brother to carry as he straps on his portable typewriter. They set out. The first parcel is delivered to a family of five. Lots of little mouths to feed. You observe as he types the date and details of the exchange. As they walk to the next destination he allows you to poke one of the keys, soul warming at how delighted you are by its click and the ink subsequently stamped onto the page.

Almost a third of the village is able to get a meal from that elk. By the time they’ve made their rounds, the sun is on its way down and he’s getting desperate to delay your departure. He stretches the tour, showing you the community center, the greenhouses where he grows herbs (and tomatoes for Sans) year-round. As you explore the town he notices how your gaze floats to the horizon where their fleet of fishing boats prepare to dock for the evening. When he can’t think of anything else to show you, he asks, “Would You Like To Come Aboard Our Ships?”

You ponder, concluding, “…I would. We will wait for them to [sult]?”

“Not Necessary! If You Hold Tightly Onto My Arm, Or My Brother’s, We Can Take A Shortcut!”

You murmur something about magic that Hunter can’t make out. You link your arm with Harvey’s and are transported aboard the largest of their vessels. The crew is shocked to see you. When Sans explains the situation they simply go about their business, sneaking glimpses now and again. You unsteadily make your way to the stern and cling to the taffrail, staring down into the ocean. “It’s very deep,” you remark with wonder and a pinch of disquietude.

Harvest recommends the view from the crow’s nest. You crane your neck to trace its staggering height above the deck and fervently shake your head. After a while of watching the waves, your expression takes a pitiful turn. Sans withholds his mirth. Seems like you're getting a little seasick.

“let’s take her back,” he mutters to Harvey.

“But Then She’ll Leave! ...Should We Tell Her About Our Soulmarks?”

He watches your spectral hair as the coastal breeze tries to carry it away. Are you really meant for him? Is there a Sans in your universe he’s stealing you from? He decides it doesn’t matter. He can share. But, this soulmate thing strikes him as being slightly coercive. He doesn’t want you to commit to him just because destiny or some bullshit tells you to. “if she tries to leave, we show her. if we can convince her to stick around then we’ll have time to get to know each other, give her our favors, first.”

“C-Courtship?! Why, Yes, I Agree, Brother. It Would Be Proper To Show Our Intentions Before We Go Taking Off Our Shirts.”

They nod. This time, you hold onto Hunter as you’re teleported back to their doorstep. The proximity allows him to get a good whiff of you—smoky, savory, and sweet. You linger on his arm for a moment, asking, “How? We were elsewhere, then here, in an instant. How does this happen?”

You don’t know to use the void? He thought it came naturally to his subspecies. He shuffles his feet. This could be an opportunity. “i’ll teach you but it’ll take time. lots of it.”

You scratch your jaw, musing. At last, you gain certainty, saying, “I understand. I will remain and repay you with my labor.”

“Repay?” Harvey wonders. Hunter whispers ‘mirror’ and he continues, “Right. There Is Really No Need To—”

Sans elbows him in the ribs before he can say anything more. He shakes his skull. What, does he want you to leave and live in the forest alone forever? If you try to make it up to them, you’ll stay, no need to spill that soulmate business so soon. After a period of uncertainty Paps seems to get it. “Ah, Yes. You Will Need To Work For…At Least A Week, To Repay Us. And In That Time, Hunter Will Teach You To Teleport! Um, Only If You Want To, Of Course!”

“Yes.” you agree simply. And with that, you’ve made two very pleased skeletons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone who makes a joke about communism and starvation WILL be sent to gulag. Jk. Joke away. Apologies if this choice is controversial but I see it as in character for horrortale bros. I can’t imagine they’d be cool with humans starving for something as silly as ‘they don’t have enough money’.
> 
> Some Imperialist Lord Mage asshole, causing a greed famine: my food.  
> Hunter, maniacally wielding a hammer and sickle, about to end this man's whole career: OUR food. 
> 
> Also Hunter, watching Skeader chugging his homemade ketchup: oh great, a kink i didn’t know i had.
> 
> Skeader, straight up horse girl: Dusty is fucking awesome and should be allowed inside, always.  
> Hunter, seriously concerned at your choice in pet names: how about no
> 
> This isn’t a meme but I like the mental image of our tallest boi Harvey with a typewriter. Tap, tap, tapping with those hella long fingers.
> 
> Also, if you're interested in extreme silliness, femslash, and skeletal harems then check out my new fic. It'll update sporadically, more of a side thing I write for fun when Good Boy and this fic are getting too serious.
> 
> Happy Valentine's! Love you all <3


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